I had been his hands, his legs, his patience.
My phone buzzed softly on the vanity. I glanced at it out of habit and saw the little folder icon I had pinned to my home screen months ago, the one I had labeled simply “Us.”
Inside it lived years of Graham’s texts to me, the ones he sent under tables at dinner parties, between courses at charity galas, in the back of cars on the way home from weddings.
Little jokes about our guests. Cruel observations dressed up as private affection.
I used to laugh at them. Lately, I have only saved them.
A soft knock pulled me from the mirror.
“Eleanor, sweetheart. May I come in?”
It was Walter, already in his good gray jacket.
I used to laugh at them.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
“I look tired.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and folded his hands.
“Eleanor. Have you noticed anything strange lately?”
I turned on the vanity bench to face him.
