Relic

A fur stole. Fur decadence, spit on now, I suppose, if worn in public. I've never worn one. Still, it's a vivid relic of Then, out of storage, tagged, hanging above me.

A man. You, of course.

A song. "Venus in Furs." Heh. No. Not that one. Something the same vintage as the stole. "Violets for Your Furs." Frank's version. That's it.

A woman. Me, of course.

This is what I remember: We lived in a warm place; there was no need for a fur stole there. But you bought me violets because I loved that song! Thank you. I've never forgotten. I slip into that memory sometimes. I sleep on it.

A mystery, this memory. Is it accurate? Have I changed it--smoothed it--by taking it off the shelf and polishing it a few too many times? Honestly, I'll probably never know the answer to that.