She adored that container with the cheap wooden base and matching lid. But inside was what mattered – the seashells they collected. It started on their first date, ending decades later.
Their love wasn’t the stuff of romance novels. It was a peck on the cheek, a furtive glance, interlocking pinkies – the kind of relationship that inspired jealousy.
He was gone now, three years and counting. She had a tiny apartment waiting. But first she needed to acknowledge this hovering moving man, holding the last remaining symbol of their life together.
“Get rid of it,” she said. “I can’t deal anymore.”
The Weekday One Hundred 