Desmond spun around when he heard the bottle crack beneath my shoe. The woman with blue hair looked equally startled, then started laughing. “Well,” she said, “I guess Saturday came early.” Desmond opened the brown package and showed me what was inside: dozens of old photographs, ticket stubs, handwritten notes, and tiny keepsakes from our thirty-one years together. The woman, Marlowe, was a local artist who created custom memory books. Desmond had been secretly bringing her pieces each night because her workshop entrance was behind the neighboring garage.
...
