The picture looked back at me from the mantle. I turned to the large windows and saw unseeing the city stretch before me.

I had taken the picture on our trip to Italy. It was a warm evening and as the sun was setting over the bay and wind was playing in the sails of the boats in the harbour, we two were in the pool that overlooked the ocean. At one point he had turned to me, his arms resting on the side of the pool.

It felt complete. The picture was perfect. The sun setting softly, a thin view of the ocean and then him, his hair wet, his smile knowing.

The brandy was warm down my throat and city twinkled before me now. Who knows why I kept the picture...The trip was a week long, the relationship not much longer. In a city of glass and steel, where we mimic the night time sky at night with our incandescent lights; in a city where hearts are made of glass...

who keeps pictures anyway?