Story - Collection

One final wipe and it went into the cabinet, with the small red card so carefully prepared.  That made ten.  He had no idea how many more he might add to the collection, but he'd felt no inclination to stop yet.  Every new one added to the memories.

Of course the first three meant far more than any of the others, the very first one the most of all, but continuing the collection meant continuing the connection.  Every means of keeping that connection alive felt worthwhile pursuing.  And, if he was honest with himself, he got a bit of a thrill for the risk he took each time.  She'd liked that.

The first had come from a fancy gastropub in Scarborough, where they'd gone for a romantic weeknd.  Drinking their G&Ts, she'd talked about how lovely the glasses were.  Shapely semi-opaque goblets with the crest of the hotel engraved on the side of the bowl.  He'd never done anything like it before.  But somehow he managed it without anyone noticing.  She was shocked and delighted when he revealed it on their return to their room, baffled at how he'd kept the secret, even from her.  Her joy in this unexpected 'gift', and the adrenaline he'd fed on from a volatile mix of fear, excitement and achievement, gave their lovemaking an extra frisson that night.

He was able to surprise her twice more, with attractive gin glasses lifted from the a posh restaurant in town they'd never been to before and doubted they'd ever afford again, and the circle bar of the Grand Theatre.  Both times she was shocked, charmed, thrilled at his audacity and devotion.  They had always been a quiet couple, safe and predictable, and this new found facet to his behaviour, and the hint of the illicit it brought to their relationship, added a spark to their existence.  She'd look at the glasses in the cabinet and be reminded that he wasn't quite the man she'd married, that he was a man of unexpected secrets and abilities.  

And then she was gone.  Throat cancer.  Three brutally short months.  One devastated husband left to mourn, to remember, to live a half empty life.  Tonic without the gin.

Six months later and he was in another bar in another theatre, on his own.  Nice glass.  She'd have liked that glass, he thought.  He drank his drink and, without conscious thought, had it concealed and on it's way to join the trio behind the glass at home.  He found himself lost in the joy of imagination, of her pretend disapproval, the light in her eyes, the buzz in his being.  The memories rekindled.  It was one way to bring her back, maybe the only way..

Now there were half a dozen more.  Every time his drink came in a glass she'd have loved.  He'd started going places for drinks just to see what glasses they came in.  Collection.  Obsession.  Love.  His triangle of risk, and a reason to keep on going.