In his hand a yellowing letter, dry to his touch. The moisture had gone from it. The life. Fifty years did that to things.
He remembers their only date: an art exhibition. Her idea. In ignorance and enthusiasm, he declared it the work of a genius. She disagreed, and was right.
In her letter she said he would forget her. Wrong.
Now, half a century later, another piece of paper. Her phone number on it. A year since her husband’s death.
Breathless, he dials. Two rings. Four.
– Hello, Nuala? It’s Martin Armstrong.
– Martin Patrick Armstrong. Now where have you been?