She blinked repeatedly, a flicker of unfocused black and white, until her mind randomly settled—a rainy Saturday. The garage. Mending a sail with him.
She held the halves of canvass and he joined them. Tighter, Jules. Atta girl! Conversations once intimate and vital were now whispered by ghosts, an eerie song sung phonetically. Ti-ter jew ells, at a gurl! And on the workbench, a dusty ship’s log—courses and compass readings long forgotten. Adventures and journeys now but ledgers, but pages.
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