But the real memories are never the ones that make the highlights reel. The real memories were of quiet afternoons watching Bethany work. The skill with which she found and told stories. The small jokes, the private looks, the squeeze of the hand every evening when they were “five seconds to air.” Every day, “Anything from the canteen, Mike?” “No, thanks, Beth, my body’s a temple.” The Twix she would then bring him back. Not rollercoasters, not skyscrapers, just the accumulation of small moments that turn acquaintance into friendship.
