Auggie had dropped his glasses. It was probably four in the morning, and the only light in the hotel room came from the alarm clocks and the laptop where he was recording the day's session with Teo Braga. He'd taken his glasses off to massage the bridge of his nose, turned, and knocked them clear off the table with his elbow. He had no way of finding them, and he was afraid to stand for fear of stepping on the frames.

"Helen," he whispered.

His wife stirred. "What's up?"

"I dropped my glasses."

She chuckled softly, turning on her bedside lamp and slowly making her way across the room. She stooped to grab them about six feet away from where he was sitting, and gently cleaned the lenses on her night shirt before returning them to her husband's face.

"Where would I be without you?" he quipped, as the room came into focus.

"Groping around aimlessly in the dark, I suppose," she said, depositing a kiss on his forehead before slipping back under the covers and turning off the light once more.

Auggie hardly ever sought memories of Helen. Rather, they found him. They always accosted his psyche when he was supposed to be doing something else, and they brought their friends. His most vivid memory of Helen was the one of them at the Trevi fountain. Or the mental image of her in the short white cocktail dress she wore when they said their vows. But those were never the ones that came to him out of the blue.

Desperately as he wished she'd never done so, she returned to his life post-mortem. These memories weren't accompanied by painful images, thank God. But the feel of her waistband at his fingertips, the sound of her voice as she told him off, the sinking feeling in his stomach when Annie learned of their tryst... these were more vivid than any of the happy memories, by far.

No matter how hard he tried to put her behind him, he could never forget her. As he soldiered on, he fulfilled her prophecy. Just a jilted widower, groping around aimlessly in the dark.