He emptied her pockets, searching for a handkerchief, a lipstick, a hair band. Anything she had handled. Anything he could carry that would transmit her fragrance, her person. He found nothing. For all the times she’d shoved her hands in the jacket’s warm pouches, her face sad as the wind blew her hair into her eyelashes, for all those silent walks on cold days, there was nothing there.
He turned to the jacket’s lining. It was a pewter color. Silky. He imagined it against her skin. Imagined her slipping bare arms into it on a day warm enough for short sleeves in the afternoon, but cool enough for a jacket in the evening. Her soft brown hairs soft against the silvery smooth lining.
There was one more pocket. Its lip was piped with a strip of fuschia that reminded him of cyclamen. The pink piping was the only color on…
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