She found the photograph on a Saturday morning in May, clearing outa drawer that had been hers for two months but had been his first, andat the bottom of it, underneath receipts and a cable she could notidentify and a pen with no lid, there was a photograph.She picked it up.Him, younger. She could tell by something less settled in his face— the early twenties version of him, before whatever it was that hadmade him the particular quality of still and certain that she had cometo know so well. His arm around a woman she did not recognise. Bothof them laughing at something outside the frame, the kind of laughthat could not be performed, the kind that arrived whole andimmediate before you had decided to have it.The woman was beautiful. Dark-skinned, natural hair pulled backloosely, the kind of person who looked right in whatever she had onwithout appearing to have thought about it. Her laugh was her wholeface. There was something in the photograph — some quality of easebetw
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