He hears himself saying goodbye over and over again, and he realizes that the woman he keeps saying goodbye to is a different woman every time; realizes that he's not the same person saying goodbye. Later on, when he thinks about it again, he understands that you can say goodbye all you want, but that no one ever really goes away and, ultimately, it's only hello that really matters.
He remembers the first time they met; remembers the bar's darkness, the bet she lost to a friend just before she approached him, hunched over his Rolling Rock and a shot of Cuervo, and asked him, "Why so glum, chum?" This, he knew immediately, was the first woman he'd ever met that he was sure he'd never want to say goodbye to.
Now, half a century later, still feeling that same warmth, he kisses her goodnight at night, kisses her good morning every morning, and contemplates the unbearable impossibility of goodbye.
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