She and her book were inseparable. That’s the only thing left of him. The book had a permanent place wherever she went. The bed, the kitchen, the park bench, the church chair, her bag. It was getting filthier every day. Another person would frown before touching it. It always gave her a mysterious satisfaction. When she opened it, she heard his voice reading the words. The sighs, the deep breaths, the lips that mimicked kisses. She kept her eyes closed, the book carelessly opened, and listened to it. To him. She felt stupid. But she was stupid. Her own kind of stupid. And when she opened her eyes, the pages were always blank. No words. Just a lot of tear stains that seemed to have wiped every single word.