She so wanted to keep her memory of him fresh, so wanted to memorize his kisses and to conjure his embrace someday when he was mere dust in the ground. The air was crisp and dry. “Did I do something wrong?” He asked. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. Later that night, after she had cleaned herself and changed her clothes, he returned. You’re a little late, you must remember, and we are punctual people here.
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