There was a spider weaving its web on the front verandah of the house she owns, that you invited me to. Which one of us was the spider and which the fly?

It's a minefield. She is unable to leaf through photos, old papers, yellowing and curling at the corners, without his presence making itself known.

There is a film she enjoys watching about deleting memories, people from lives. The moral of the story is that there are always good memories with the bad, enough to make the forgetting as painful as the remembering.

She can't think of any memory with him that is singly beautiful.