19

I'm on the last bus out of the terminal. I won't be in Montreal until two in the morning. 

I didn't bring a book or a sketchbook with me to pass the time. I even left the camera, except I took out the film first. My first thought was to expose it to the light, destroy it, but for some reason I packed it safely away in its plastic container, and right now it's at the bottom of my duffel bag.

Only an hour after the bus peels out of the terminal I realize I forgot to leave the bracelet on the counter like I intended, just like I did with the other gifts. I remember it when it slips out from under the cuff of my hoodie and falls over my hand with a soft clink of charms.

Dumbfounded, I hold up my hand and look at it. Something to remember this place by, indeed. I debate throwing it right out the bus window. I even unclasp it and take it off. It's so delicate, real white gold, with deeply gleaming enamel on the purple-blue iris flowers. I can't bring myself to do it.