The Keeper of Lost Things

by Ruth Hogan

He would a thousand times rather have spent it with her, but to give up when she died would have been the greatest wrong; to throw away the gift that had been snatched from her would have been an act of appalling ingratitude and cowardice.

“Well, I expect she did a little more for him than just the dusting and hoovering.” Laura had intended to try to sneak past them without being seen, but now she turned and faced them with a brazen smile. “Fellatio,” she announced. “Every Friday.” And without another word, she swept out. Winnie turned to Marjory with a puzzled expression. “What’s that when it’s at home?” “Italian,” said Marjory, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. “I had it in a restaurant once.”

💀

“Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, funk to punky. We know Major Tom’s a monkey. We can be heroes just for today.”

The perfect eulogy.

The childish fantasy of romance had been rudely replaced by the sordid reality of his groping hands and hot, ragged breath in her ear.

“I just want you to promise me that you’ll be careful. If you find a ‘special friend’ or”—the thought just occurring to her—“you have one already, just promise me that you won’t get Hives.” Eunice bit down hard on her lip, but Bomber couldn’t hold back a smile. “It’s HIV, Ma.”

“It’s certainly a queer thing to lose,” said Stella, tucking into her crumb-dusted, sautéed crayfish tails with hand-cut chips. “And why on earth would you put your loved one in a biscuit tin?”