Dear E.,
We sat in the back seat, you and I, chatting about one thousand distant memories. I watched your lips while you spoke. And how you lied… so flagrantly! Did you forget that I was there, too? Did you forget that I experienced all of those events… that I was an uncontestable, undeniable presence inside the perimeter of those realities?
You wrapped all of your lies in oceans of tissue paper, and all I wanted to do was tell you to release yourself from this fictional past. But then… what was I searching for but someone who could share my memories with me… my memories as I remembered them… my memories as I wanted to remember them?
Your breath mated with the gentle hammer of the rain as you spoke. We rode a bump on the road… a mere hiccup in our already asynchronous flow. I found myself wondering… What is it I despise about this moment? And, what is it in you that I dislike in myself? I wanted to ask you, What is it you’re searching for? Instead, I said, “Do your eyes change color when you cry?”
You looked at me like you thought I wasn’t paying attention… like you wanted to say something. You looked. And that was all.
How immeasurable the loneliness that inhabits indecision!
Yours,
N.
