TWENTY.

She stared at her empty flat.

Twenty weeks had gone by.

SOLD. read the sign on her front door.


When she had been packing her things up, she had found a box at the bottom of her closet.

It had belonged to Him.

Of course, she went through them.

Pictures of them at the park, carnival, movies...

Of them.

Together.

It seemed as if she was being transported back in Time.

All the wonderful memories were being shuffled in her hand.

Like one of those newfangled digital cameras, she flipped through them, one by one.


She raised them to her forehead, and pressed them there, absorbing all the good times they had together.

She wanted them to remain etched in her mind,

permanently.


For later reference, perhaps?



Later, on her way out, she stopped by the dustbin.

She ripped the photos into halves,


(sccccccrrrch)



quarters,



(sccccrch)


eights.

(scccrh)


And tossed them into the air.





Like snowflakes, they fell

one by one, into the gaping jaws of the plastic-bag lined bin.




To forgive,
to






forget.