Already, the picture is fading. The colour and texture of her hair, her skin, her eyes are losing their sharp being, their clear-cut features and nature. She is fading. The paper is rougher. Furry, even. It feels thicker somehow. Older, heavier, duller. She is fading. I seriously consider taking the photograph out of my wallet and putting it in the desk drawer. Where other perhaps-important things lie. The photograph will definitely be lost in there, gathering dust and anonymity along with bills, forms, receipts, prescriptions and brochures. I hesitate now. I look at her face again in the photograph. Old memory-feelings stir. A coiling and uncoiling of emotion. A bubbling up, slight but distinct still, of feeling. I look at her face. I hold the photograph closer. Her oval, feminine face. The lips. The way her hair falls slightly over to the left. Her happy, sparkling eyes. Fuck it. The photograph stays. She stays. My wallet must hold the memories of a heartbreak some more. The photograph is fading. The feeling hasn’t. Damn.

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