In spite of everything else going on with us - and there's plenty - I'm still making word count for nanowrimo. I feel like the book is a WRECK. I'm not used to writing so much without stopping to edit!
The next morning I woke up to find a single pink rose on my door step. Beneath it sat a square white envelope with the letter “L” written on it in Colin’s curly left-handed script. There was no other message inside, just a five-by-seven photograph of a ratty leather restaurant booth. I recognized it immediately as one of Colin’s compositions: intentionally off-center, taken without a flash, slightly grainy and framed with a thin white border. The only light in the photo came from from the dented lamp that hung above the table, a rustic chandelier made from an empty coffee can and a single bare light bulb.
It was the exact spot in Dublin, Ireland where he’d first kissed me ten years ago.
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