For several seconds, I could not breathe.
The photograph trembled in my hands, though I was gripping it so tightly the edges bent beneath my fingers. It had faded at the corners, softened by time and too many folds, but there was no mistaking the two people in it.
Mary stood beside me outside a small diner on Wabash Avenue, her hair pinned loosely at the back of her neck, her smile shy and bright all at once. I remembered that day. I remembered the smell of rain on the pavement, the scrape of a taxi’s brakes nearby, the way she had laughed when the waitress offered to take our picture because, according to her, we looked like people who were about to either get married or break each other’s hearts.
I had laughed then.
Mary had not.
She had only looked at me, her eyes searching mine as if she already knew which one it would be.
The man in the photograph was younger than I felt now. Less careful. Less polished. He wore a cheap gray suit with sleeves half an inch too short and shoes he had shined himself in a bathroom sink. His arm was around Mary’s shoulders, but his eyes were not on her. They were somewhere beyond the camera, focused on an invisible future he thought he had to chase alone.
“Click here to read the full story”.
