Bridges.

The Polaroid that hung at the edge of her cork board was tacked with a red button-pin, and judging from the dust that had accumulated on the surface, it had probably been hanging since the beginning of time. Above her spotless mahogany workspace these things remained: things to be remembered, things expected to be lost and, despite Maybee’s tendency toward detachment, all things cherished. The snap of the pin breaking loose was only a fraction of what she might have imagined- no fire, heat or smoke at the burning of this bridge- and she was left with only an instant of remorse for the picture’s corner, so easily severed.