From time to time I come to think of Henry. Remembering what he looks like is slowly getting harder, when I imagine his voice I hear the irregular heartbeat from a broken telephone line and nothing more. I stopped collecting photographs of people I know when my father died, the fear of forgetting them keeps me from falling asleep too easily.
I tried reading Proust once. Henry said it
changed his life, he doesn't call me as often as he used to and the last
time we spoke he called me Odette. His flowers are scentless now, just
like the Givenchy cardigan he left behind like a Trojan horse in my
night stand drawer.
Last week I bought a stamp for the letter I
wrote. The thought of sending it to him gives some form of meaning to
the words again, after all this wasted time.