After the funeral, Mason searches frantically for every kiss she’s left behind. He looks in her purse and coat pockets, the couch cushions and her bathroom trash. In the end, he finds forty-five.
Grieving, he binges on four, then resolves to ration them: one a year, and when they’re gone he won’t bother to live anymore.
Next month he breaks it and uses three, but after that he’s stronger. One the next year. One the next. Until one January he forgets.
Among his possessions, his daughters find a tiny box. In it are thirty-two things, unidentifiable, like slips of brittle cellophane.