I memorized him there, making my own image of the two of us alone in the daylight, the long brown expanse of his limbs, suddenly white at the ankle, at mid-thigh. Not a step-by-step archiving, the way I used to with you, Violet—obsessive remembering driven by the fear of forgetting, the fear of missing some crucial clue—but holding one moment lightly, like this, with the curtains moving. One frame, bordered by dark. I already knew that I would never see him again.
