Shortly after we entered the room, I understood that part of my life was over.
Like a fox scenting the breeze, she sensed his presence, swiftly leaving my side to prowl amongst the assembled guests.
They found each other within moments. How could they not?
For years afterwards, the rest of us warmed ourselves at the glow of their dancing, flickering passion, implicitly rationalising that nothing so incandescent could be sustained indefinitely.
Later, much later, he apologised.
“We shall share her ashes,” he declared magnanimously, and returned half my wife in a burnished copper urn.
The man was all heart.
The first Friday Fictioneers of February – and after that exercise in alliteration, all that remains is to thank Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for the time she dedicates to leading us out, week after week.