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"Don't you have enough memories?" Greg twisted the word into an incredulous insult each time Stacy hauled out her Nikon--as if she'd asked him, at age thirty-seven, to check their closet for the bogeyman.
Stacy caught his sneer in her viewfinder and snapped a few shots, then lowered the camera and stuck her tongue out at him. Her calm, laughing, "Not yet," baffled him. Greg itched under the idea that she'd want to remember him.
He had his own camera, a Polaroid that never saw daylight. Stacy, enticing him with arch looks, shameless for him in the perfect moment, never minded. She had pictures to send to relatives and friends, choosing and pasting one each year into a Christmas card; Greg could keep his.
Greg shuddered in real or imagined horror at the mention of holidays or family trips. Arranged in albums, or stacked with their negatives in paper envelopes, Stacy's growing collection only made him do his best to squirm out from under their weight.
Her memories filled a banker's box in five years. Stacy left them with Greg in the end, anchor and talisman. She hoped someday when he looked, he'd know what she'd seen in him.