A couple of old tissues, a polo mint, two rubber bands, a cinema ticket. Keys (garage? office? shed?). A biro (cracked), some sellotape. A business card from my husband’s agency: same address, different department, a woman’s name. When I phone, she calls my husband a lying bastard and says I’m to tell him he’s never going to see his baby again.
A peanut. Some crisp dust.
A Brooklyn Bridge postcard my husband sent from last year’s conference. Clean, fresh stamp; no postmark. I missed that.
A piece of silver foil, a button, some hair.
Mandy Wheeler is a writer who was formerly a radio director. She lives in London.
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