She had never before considered the mortality of her lovers. In her less recent youth she had been somewhat intrepid with her sexual adventures, racking up numbers and nights and falling in love over and over again for just a few hours, and then folding each love into a little box and putting it on the shelf, or, on rarer occasions holding it to herself like a hot water bottle. Most of them she never saw or heard of again. Some of them she did. She had seen this one only once since their extended encounter, and it was a pleasant meeting, warm and familiar, and convivial. She learned of his death through a mutual friend, and on the occasion she was hit by a sharp sorrow. Not just for him, though he was nice and good and the recollections of him were treasure, but for each and every one, with each of whom she created a little pocket of another world, each of which would become extinct, one by one, each widowing another of her memories.