Tightening the sash on her ice-blue silk robe, she walked across her bedroom carpet to the cherry armoire that held her stereo equipment and flicked on her CD player. She pushed a few buttons, then turned down the volume so only she could hear.

The lush sounds of Whitney Houston signing her anthem for broken hearts washed over her, and Nealy’s first burning, self-indulgent, oh-so-necessary tears began to fall.

Because she would always love him . . .

Squeezing her arms tightly over her chest, she’d listen to Whitney sing it as it was.

Bittersweet memories . . .

She pulled the box from the bottom of her closet and carried it to her bed where she sat cross-legged, the silk robe falling open over her knees. Inside the box were her own bittersweet memories: a matchbook cover from Grannie Peg’s, a smooth river stone she’d picked up by the covered bridge, her little beaded choker, and the pink rose he’d plucked for her the night they’d explored the old farmhouse. It grew more brittle every time she handled it.

She drew it to her face, but the fragrance had faded.

He was the second man she’d loved. The second man who hadn’t loved her back.

The song began to play again.

Her self-indulgence was so melodramatic that she always wanted to laugh at herself. But somehow she never managed it.

Bittersweet memories . . .

Just once a week to relive those old memories. Was that so terrible? Once a week, so she could make it through the rest of the days and nights of her life.

I will always love you.

Mat had everything he’d ever wanted. Money. Respect. A job he loved. And privacy.

If he reached for his flannel shirt when he came home from work, it was exactly where he’d left it. When he opened his bathroom cabinets, he found shaving cream, deodorant, Ace bandages, and foot powder. Nobody got into his root beer, left her Walkman where he could step on it, or threw up on the carpet of the townhouse he was renting in Chicago’s Lincoln Park.

He was only responsible for himself. He could change his plans on a moment’s notice, watch the Bears lose without anybody interrupting him, and call his buddies to shoot some baskets whenever he felt like it. His life was perfect.

So why did he feel as if he’d somehow been cheated?

He set aside the newspaper he hadn’t read. Most Saturday mornings he drove to Fullerton Beach and ran along the lake, but today he didn’t feel like it. He didn’t feel like doing much of anything. Maybe he’d try to get a start on next week’s columns.