He didn't deserve any but the death he was destined for though he understood in some sense what had brought him to this one. As a child with Polish parents he had been raised a Catholic and was as a result imbued with a sense of the necessity for repentance. It wasn't clear to him whether this belated recognition of how the woman might have found him worthy of death could qualify as same.
In any case he had not sought confession or absolution, from her or any man, or from any human creature. On chill Spring mornings as a child during Holy Weeks he had made the pilgrimage with other children to seven churches, a devotion said to ensure a last confession. (Or was it the nine First Fridays?)
He had loved his wife once and, for awhile, raised his children as best he could. He worked hard for many years without insisting that it be recognized as anything more than what it was.
He liked to fish, liked the moment when the dark form struck from deep within the blue water, liked the smell of them when the batter touched the hot grease.
He sometimes thought about things.
He wasn't a good man. To his credit he knew as much at the end.