6/27/2023 0 Comments Cold Fingers by Amy Spector![]() ![]() ![]() Placed no closer to me than to her, as if at any moment either one of us could break down. “No,” I answered, grabbing a tissue to shred from the box placed strategically on the coffee table between us. She was thirty-two: the same age I was now. Not young, or at least older than myself, but wasn’t youth relative? Wasn’t everything? When I was ten, I distinctly remembered thinking my mother was practically at death’s door. Anthony watched quietly from the chair across from me. Did he live up to all your memories? Or did those two years give him a rosy tint?” “Disappointment?” I asked, unable to imagine why she thought seeing the man again could ever leave me disappointed. Anthony’s question brought me back to my surroundings and away from my memories of damp grass and the smell of freshly turned earth. “And how do you feel about him now? Was seeing him again a disappointment?”ĭr. The imagery of them had haunted me, had kept me awake at night. I remembered the words as well as if I had said them myself. ![]()
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