“You should put the photograph in a nicer frame.”
I laughed.
I assumed she was joking.
She wasn’t.
“That would defeat the point.”
“Why?”
“He made it.”
She lifted both hands.
“Fine.”
Then smiled.
“Keep your crooked frame.”
THE NEXT MORNING, IT WAS GONE
I searched everywhere.
Boxes.
Drawers.
Behind the mantel.
Closets I had already unpacked.
Nothing.
Eventually—
I blamed myself.
Maybe I had moved it.
Maybe grief had made the memory feel clearer than it was.
And like I always did—
I let it go.
Then the garbage bags started appearing.
FIRST THERE WERE TWO
Two black bags beside my garbage bin.
They weren’t mine.
George was collecting his newspaper across the street.
“Those yours?”
“No.”
He looked at them.
Then me.
“Interesting.”
The next morning—
four.
By Friday—
seven.
Seven bags beside the bins of one woman living alone.
I stood on the porch with coffee.
George looked over.
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
“Don’t what?”
“Whatever your face is currently saying.”
“My face thinks you generate an impressive amount of garbage.”
“My face thinks you should mind your business.”
He laughed.
I didn’t.
Two bags becoming seven wasn’t an accident.
Someone had become comfortable.
So on the next collection morning—
I got up before six.
Made coffee.
Sat beside the living-room window.
Twenty minutes later—
I saw Marlene Whitmore.
SHE WAS CARRYING TWO BLACK GARBAGE BAGS
Leggings.
