Thirty Minutes Ago

He took a photograph of Judy and the Empire State Building.

It was the perfect day.

She was finally happy, he was finally done with classes. They wandered around midtown, struck by the percussive wind of speeding taxis, listening to the rubble of conversation and clomping strides, dousing themselves in the saturated hues of signs and clothes against city gray.

He: pointed at windows of music and candy.
She: bent her gaze high at glass and lines, at columns and relief.

Hopes tumbling into each other, they kissed amid flowing rivers of unblinking strangers.

That was five years ago, when she bent down to pick up her phone, and she smiled a smile that rang through him like church bells.

Two years ago that she moved to Montana.

One day ago that he found out about the engagement.

Thirty minutes ago that he took down a box, where he had a photograph of Judy and the Empire State Building.

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