“This store like one of those charm bracelets,” she said, “only the chain is broken.”
“Uh huh.” He was inspecting a framed set of trout flies, each with its name neatly inked below it. Yellow Stone Fly. Beetle Bug Fly.
She plucked a photograph from a basket marked 2 for 50 cent. A man and a woman standing in a dusty field before a hulking old car. Neither was looking directly at the camera, nor were they smiling.
She flipped it over. Jim and Ethel written in faint pencil.
“I wonder who they were.”
“No way to ever know,” he said, distracted.