Forgetfulness
“They were everyday familiar, but he had rarely noticed them: photographs of her mother and Tante Christine and the postmaster, husband number one, looking official in a blue hat. He had been dead some years and she seldom spoke of him except to remark on his loyalty to the post office, one of the sublime achievements of French civilization, established by Louis XI and nationalized by the immortal Bonaparte himself. There were two photographs of her and Thomas in the mountains, snow-covered peak...s in the distance. Florette wore a black beret and they both carried walking sticks; same beret, same walking sticks in both pictures. He leafed through a stack of postcards, then straightened them as you would straighten a deck of cards. He paused to look left at the Matisse sketch over the bed, the head of a young woman so ardent you felt she might fly off the paper and become flesh in front of your eyes. He had bought it for Florette on their first wedding anniversary and he had never seen her so pleased.MoreLess
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