A Matter of Time

“Throw it away,” she said.

Tom twirled the white sailor’s cap on his hand. ‘Kiss me quick’ was emblazoned across the front, but he’d crossed out the word ‘quick’ with a black marker and written ‘slow’. The cap wasn’t really white anymore, and the writing was no longer black. It had that purple tinge that comes with age – because black never really was black. And white was rarely white.

If it was, she would remember.

“And don’t put it in the charity bag. It’s not in good enough condition for that.”

He nodded.

Age changed everything but his love.