Every night, he clicked through them. The furniture store still had the 1970s armchair. The knife was still out of stock. The moss hadn’t grown much.
It had been fourteen months since Gina left. favorites chrome
Arthur’s fingers moved on autopilot. Click the blue compass star, type "M," and hit enter. The familiar teal and white page loaded, listing the daily specials of Mario’s Pizzeria. Every night, he clicked through them
Arthur looked at the empty chair across the table. He looked back at the screen, at the gleaming, unforgiving chrome frame around his life. The moss hadn’t grown much
He never changed his browser’s bookmarks bar. Nestled between “News” and “Finance” was a folder labeled simply “G.” Inside were eighteen links. A vintage furniture store in Portland she’d wanted to visit. The webpage for a ridiculously expensive Japanese chef’s knife. A blog about restoring moss gardens. A live cam of a beach in Cornwall they’d watched one rainy Tuesday, pretending they could hear the waves.
Instead, his cursor drifted to the three vertical dots at the far right. Bookmarks. Import. Export. Clean up.