Andrew didn’t like Thursdays. They reminded him of her.
He remembered the dappled light upon the plaster ceiling-decorations above her bed, the soft pillow cradling his head, the cool early-autumn air, the feeling of the back of her hand resting against his.
The memory of her consisted of fragments like these.
At other times, he remembered her as a fragrance that was, for him, indistinguishable from the ever-young scent of the ocean. Or, his memory of her could be encapsulated in the image of a grain of sand caught amongst strands of golden hair. She was sea-salt and sand, but soft, so soft.
On Thursdays, these images consumed his mind. Their timelessness held for him an unbearable beauty that filled him with a deep feeling of melancholy. He would stop in his tracks, transfixed by these lingering sensations, the ghost like simulacra that were all that remained of her.
An angel passes before the moon, he would whisper to himself, on Thursdays.
He had always thought they would stay together eternally. She would not leave him, but if she had to leave, she would leave him on a Sunday. It would be early evening; their hands would remain joined; neither would look at the other; eventually, their hands would part but their fingertips would linger in final communion; a single tear would stain the ground beneath his feet; and, when he looked up, she would be gone.
She left him on a Thursday.