I didn’t recognize you, not at first. I couldn't remember you in any of the many places or times I had once claimed for my own. The particular way you have aged was more to blame than any defect in recollecting my past. To put it kindly, Time had given you, my once coveted muse, a funny disguise. Not a robe, with curly shoes and crowned turban, or a venetian mask with an outsized schnoz, but an expression in the eyes that had not been there before; that would have stayed with me. It's a look I'm scrambling to decipher with all the code books I can think of.
Then you spoke, layer upon layer of time flowing backwards. Most of the familiar things were gone. The hair on your head didn’t survive the years since it hung in a long ponytail slung over one shoulder.Your voice is making me wince a little. I say your name to myself.
The displeasing sensations subside. Revisiting of any kind makes me feel uneasy. What could we have left unsaid, or what could we have to say now, on this random street corner?
“You look the same.”
“I’m not.” I smile.
Embarrassed silence. I pray you don't say I look good—so much that I continue.
“You live here now?”
“My daughter.”
You don't return the question; I get it: you moved on, had a family. I never married and have no child, although I came close to having yours. My face goes behind the clouds. You are standing in the shadow.
“Hey, remember the time we stayed up all night at Evan McNally’s house? They don’t throw parties like that anymore.”
You offer this congenially. I know you mean the collective ‘they’, but I’m thinking it should be ‘we’. I'm supposed to agree with you to make things alright.
“It was the night we met.”
You’re visibly thrown, and insult meets injury.
“Nah, that’s not how we met. I remember it differently.”
You’re growing tense.
I’m about to call your bluff, but I remember just then how things ended, the word choices especially, and I go cold all over again. I decide it’s not as important as it would have been even five years before, and for me, this is a great thing.
Impulsively, I hug you and say, “I have to go.”
Quickly, before I change my mind.
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This is so good. Love the surrealist feel, things turned inside out, the tension.
Great story Camila, a kind of muted pain. I like the way you don't describe things we're expecting you to, like the expression in the eyes that wasn't there before. The dialog is good and taut.