Around her the kids are screaming, but Dena can hear something else. The hiss of onions maybe, an angry hiss, like they’re charring
“Happy anniversary,” Dena whispers to herself.
Outside, the day closes quickly on February 15, 2020: an imperceptible city sunset and then a thick night. As if the day never was.
No one had called her. No one remembered. There’s nothing to remember from February 15, 2018.
Slowly, maddeningly calm, feelings held at bay as if they aren’t hers, Dena walks over to a drawer she’s hasn’t opened in one and a half years.
She takes stock of the collection, dissects it coolly with the eye of the amateur jeweler she is. She opens her laptop and creates a chart.
Create a free account to keep reading.
