fifties

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Scott was gaunt with deep wrinkles on the back of his neck; I was gaunt with rust and scratches.

On an armchair, he gingerly opened me, and took out a home tape. He played it.

There was Mavis, still 14, young and beautiful, laughing and yelling.

The video tape recorder was set against the setting sun. The figure of Mavis was overexposed, and the color faded every time he played it.

Every time she would glance over her shoulder and beckon to him, “Sunset hunters, ha-ha!” He would yell to her in the resounding crackle, “Mavis, you can be the fireworks!”

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