She sips more coffee and thinks of it. Her past. Hers. She knows what he meant, what he knows, what she’s shared with him in dark nights filled with memories and restlessness. She thinks of each time, every instance. One by one. It’s really the past. Not even hers. Just stories that really belong to other people but were somehow passed to her for safekeeping, for her to know, forever. Incidents. Situations. They roll by in her head, factual and unemotional.
