His words stayed with her for years. Each night as she lay waiting for sleep, she tried to re-create the evening in her mind — the tone of his voice, his hand on her shoulder. Soon the memory was worn as an old photograph, the edges fuzzy from frequent handling; she worried that she’d gotten the words wrong, forgotten some nuance of his face or voice. Finally she wondered if she’d made the whole thing up.

Autore: Jennifer Haigh