Luxury

If you bumped into me in a supermarket aisle, would my face spark up a memory? Or would you look up at me without really looking, apologise hurriedly and disappear back into your own business?

If you saw me in a crowded street, would you recognise my silhouette? Or would I melt into the shapeless mass of strangers?

Hell, if one day, as you were leaving for work, you found me standing in your bloody doorway, would you know who I am?

Was.

Was I ever anything at all?

It always takes me by surprise, how easily people forget. Was I an item on your to-do-list that you kept putting off till the next day, till it completely vanished from your mind?

The meaningless small talk we bother with every day, the empty how are yous and other questions asked with no real interest in actually hearing an answer.

Your favourite number, your great grandmother’s birthday, the name of the village somewhere in the middle of nowhere that you grew up in, the exact day your beloved dog died when you were a kid…

“You remembered that?”

The wide-eyed expression I get when I mention some detail, the shock that I actually cared to listen.

It’s almost bad to remember things people tell you. It turns you into a creep. I’d better wear that same clueless look on my face as the rest of you.

I wish I was as forgetful as you.

What a luxury it would be to unremember that I ever knew you.

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5 Comments Add yours

  1. Those first two paragraphs are so melancholy and then there’s such fire in the third, it’s brilliant.

    1. mrsreckless says:

      Thank you! I’m flattered to hear that.

  2. Ranting Crow says:

    Will you leave a stain
    a scent
    for that one second memory
    a single moment
    affectionate touches
    a brief gaze
    sweet voices of apologies
    ring like an echo
    the rest of the day.

    I so loved what you wrote. And it inspired and made me remember a piece I done called ‘One second memory’.

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