Push Your Limits: Don't Trust Anyone

Chapter 3 Chapter 2 Chris's Secret Diary: November 11

Saturday, May 11

The time for journaling today is noon.Ben was reading something downstairs.He thought I was resting, but although I was tired, I didn't.I do not have time.I must write it down before I forget it.I have to keep a journal.

I checked the time on my watch.Ben proposes to go for a walk in the afternoon, and I have a little over an hour.

I woke up this morning not knowing who I was.When I opened my eyes I expected to see the hard edges of the bedside table, a yellow light, a boxy wardrobe in the corner of the room, wallpaper with faint ferns.I expected to hear Mum frying bacon downstairs, or Dad whistling in the garden while trimming the hedges.I thought I'd be lying on a single bed with nothing but a toy bunny with one ear ripped off.

I was wrong.I'm in my parents' room, I thought at first, then realized I didn't recognize a single thing in the room.The bedroom is completely alien.I fall back on the bed.Something went wrong, I thought.Very, very horribly wrong.

I had seen the picture taped to the mirror and read the sign before going downstairs.I know I'm not a kid, not even a teenage girl anymore, and come to realize that the man I'm hearing now, whistling into the radio while making breakfast, isn't my father, or roommate, or boyfriend, his name is Ben, and he's mine husband.

Outside the kitchen I hesitated.I'm scared.I was about to see him, as if for the first time.What will he look like?Is it the same as in the photo?Or the photo is also distorted?Will he be older, fatter, or balder?what does his voice sound likeWhat will he do?Am I well married?
Suddenly, a hallucination popped out of nowhere.A woman—my mother? —Tell me to be careful.Don't rush into marriage...

I pushed open the door.With his back to me, Ben was turning the sizzling bacon in the pan with his spatula.He didn't hear me come in.

"Ben?" I said.He turned around suddenly.

"Chris? Are you okay?"

I didn't know how to answer, so I said, "It's all right. I think it's all right."

Then he smiled and looked relieved, and so did I.He looked older than in the picture upstairs—more wrinkles on his face, his hair was graying and falling out a little at the temples—but that, far from detracting from his attractiveness, made him even more so.His jaw was strong, for an older man; his eyes had a mischievous twinkle.I realized he was a bit like an older version of my father.I could have married someone worse than this, I thought.Much worse.

"Have you seen the pictures?" he said.I nod. "Don't worry. I'll explain everything. Why don't you find a place to sit down the corridor?" He gestured to the corridor. "Across the hall is the dining room. I'll be right there. Here you go, take this. "

He handed me a pepper mill and I went to the dining room.A few minutes later he followed with two dishes.There was a strip of blanched bacon in the oil, fried bread and an egg on the side of the plate.I ate while listening to him explain how I lived.

Today is Saturday, he said.He works during the week; is a teacher.He explained the phone in my bag and a whiteboard tacked to the kitchen wall.He told me where I kept my emergency money - two £20 notes, tightly rolled up and tucked behind the clock over the fireplace - and showed me the scrapbook from which I got a rough idea of ​​my life multiple moments.He told me that as long as we work together, we can handle it.I'm not sure I believe him, but I have to.

After we finished eating, I helped him clean up his breakfast. "We should go for a walk later," he said, "if you want?" I said yes, and he seemed very pleased. "I'll come as soon as I read the paper," he said. "Is that all right?"

I went upstairs.Once I'm alone, my mind starts spinning, full and empty.I feel like I can't hold on to anything, nothing seems real.Looking at the house I was in now—now I knew it was my home—my eyes were completely foreign.For a moment I even wanted to run away; but I had to calm myself down.

I sat on the edge of the bed I slept in last night.I should make my bed, I thought.Or go clean and keep yourself busy.I picked up the pillow and fluffed it up when there was a humming sound.

I don't know what that is.The voice was low and intermittent.It was a thin, faint ringing.My bag was at my feet, and as I picked it up, I realized that the hum seemed to be coming from inside.I'm reminded of the cell phone Ben said.

It lights up when the phone is found.I stared at it for a while.Dimly -- deep down, or at the edge of memory -- I knew exactly what this call meant.I picked up the phone.

It was a man's voice. "Hello?" he said. "Chris? Chris? Are you there?"

I told him I was there.

"I'm your doctor. Are you all right? Is Ben around?"

"No," I said, "he's not here—what's the matter with you?"

He told me his name and that we had been in therapy together for a few weeks. "For your memory," he explained.I didn't answer, and he said, "I hope you believe me. I want you to look at the closet in the bedroom." We were silent for a while, and then he continued, "There's a shoe box in the closet, take a look in it, There should be a notebook."

I glanced at the wardrobe in the corner of the room.

"How do you know this?"

"You told me," he said, "we met yesterday and we agreed that you should keep a journal, and you told me you would hide it there."

I don't believe you, I'd like to say, but that seems neither polite nor entirely true.

"Could you take a look at it?" he said.I told him I would, and he added, "Go now. Don't say a word to Ben. Go now."

Instead of hanging up the phone, I went to the closet.He is right.On the floor of the closet was a shoebox--a blue box with a lid that said SOLAR--with a small book wrapped in tissue paper.

"Found it?" said Dr. Nash.

I took out the pad and removed the tissue paper.It has a brown leather cover and looks like a hefty price tag.

"Chrissy?"

"Yes, I have it."

"Okay. Did you write anything on it?"

I turn to the first page.I found out that I've been logging.My name is Chris Lucas.The log begins by saying. 47 years old, is a patient with amnesia.I felt nervous and excited, like I was spying on someone's privacy, but the object of the spying was myself.

"I forgot." I said.

"Great!" He said he would call me tomorrow and we ended the call.

I didn't move.Crouching on the floor next to the open wardrobe, with the bed unmade, I started reading the journal.

I was disappointed at first.I can't recall a single thing that was written in the diary, not Dr. Nash, nor the clinic I claim he took me to, nor the test I say we took.Even though I had just heard his voice, I couldn't picture him, or imagine myself with him.The journal reads like a novel, but then halfway between the two pages towards the end of the journal, I find a photo.I grew up in the house in the pictures and I woke up this morning thinking I was in it.It's true, and that's my proof.I met Dr. Nash and he gave me this picture, a fragment from the past.

I closed my eyes.Yesterday I described my old house, the sugar bowl in the pantry, picking berries in the woods.Are those memories still there?can i think of moreI thought about my mother and father, and wished I could remember something else.One picture after another quietly emerged.A dull orange rug, an olive green vase, a shag rug, a jumpsuit with a pink duck woven on the chest and a button down the middle, a navy blue plastic car seat, and a faded pink poo pot.

Color and graphics, but none of them are about living life.nothing.I want to meet my parents, I think.That's when I first realized, without knowing why, that they were gone.

I sighed and sat down on the edge of the unmade bed.There was a pen in the middle of the journal, and I took it out almost without thinking, intending to write something more.I hung the pen on the paper, closed my eyes and gathered my energy.

That's when it happened.I don't know if I just realized the fact that my parents had passed away and that set off a chain reaction, but it felt like my consciousness had awakened from a long, deep sleep.It came to life, but not step by step; it came to life suddenly, in a flash.Suddenly instead of sitting in a bedroom with a blank journal in front of me, I was somewhere else.Back in the past—a past I thought was lost—I could touch, feel, taste everything.I realized I was stuck in memories.

I saw myself coming home, back to where I grew up.I was around 13 or 14, anxious to get on with an unfinished story, and found a note on the kitchen table.We must go out, the note said.Uncle Ted will pick you up at 6 o'clock.I got a drink and a sandwich and sat down with my laptop.Mrs. Royce said my story was powerful and moving; she thought I could do it one day.But I couldn't think of what to write and couldn't concentrate.I was angry in silence.This is their fault.where are theywhat are you doing?Why didn't you take me with you?I crumpled up the paper and threw it away.

The picture disappeared, but was immediately replaced by another one.Stronger and more real.Dad is driving us home.I sat in the backseat of the car and stared at a spot on the windshield.A dead fly.a grain of sand.I can't recognize it.I started talking, not knowing what I was going to say.

"When are you going to tell me?"

No one answered.

"Mother?"

"Chris," my mother said, "don't do that."

"Dad? When are you going to tell me?" Silence. "Are you going to die?" My eyes were still on the spots on the car window, "Dad? Are you going to die?"

He smiled back at me. "Of course not, my angel. Of course not. Not until I'm very, very old and have lots and lots of grandkids!"

I know he's lying.

"We'll win this battle," he said, "I promise you."

Take a breath.I opened my eyes.The hallucinations are gone, gone.I'm sitting in the bedroom, I woke up this morning in this bedroom, but for a moment it didn't look the same.Completely flat, colorless, lifeless, as if I were looking at a photo faded in the sun, as if the vibrant past had robbed this moment of life.

I looked down at the diary in my hand.The pen had slipped from my finger, drawing a thin blue line across the paper before hitting the floor.My heart beat wildly in my chest.I've remembered something, something very important.It has not been forgotten.I picked up my pen from the floor and started writing it down.

I stop here.When I close my eyes and try to recall that image again, I can still remember it.Myself.my parents.The driving home scene.It's still there.Not as vivid anymore, as if it had faded over time, but still there.Still, I'm glad I've jotted it down.I know it's going to go away eventually, but at least there's a trace of it for now.

Ben must have finished reading the newspaper.He called upstairs and asked me if I was ready to go out.I told him yes.I would hide the journal in the closet and find a jacket and boots to wear.I'll jot down more stuff later, if I remember.

*****
The log above was written hours ago.We were out all afternoon, but are now home.Ben was in the kitchen cooking fish for dinner.He turned on the radio, and the sound of jazz floated into the bedroom: I'm sitting here writing this journal.I didn't offer to make dinner—I was in a hurry to go upstairs to record what I saw this afternoon—but he didn't seem to mind.

"Go to sleep for a while." He said, "It will take about 45 minutes for dinner." I nodded. "I'll call you when it's done," he said with a smile.

I looked at my watch.If I write fast I should still have time.

We were out the door just before 1 o'clock.We didn't go far, and parked next to a low, wide building.The house looked deserted; a solitary gray pigeon lingered for a moment at each of the boarded-up windows, and the building's gates were hidden behind corrugated iron. "It's the outdoor pool," said Ben, getting out of the car. "It's open in the summer, I guess. Shall we go?"

A concrete path winds its way up the hill.We walked in silence, only to hear the occasional screech of one of the crows that settled on the empty football field, the mournful barking of a dog in the distance, the voices of children, the hum of the city.I thought about my father and his passing, and thought that at least a little bit of it I had remembered.I stared at a lone jogger along a track for a while until the path led us over a tall hedge to the top of the hill.At the top of the mountain I could see life in flesh and blood: a little boy flying a kite, his father standing behind him, a girl walking a puppy on a long leash.

"This is Capitol Hill," Ben said. "We come here a lot."

I didn't speak.Under the low clouds, the city spread out in front of us, seemingly peaceful.It was smaller than I expected; I could see the low hills beyond at a glance across the city.I can see the spiked tops of the telecommunication towers, the dome of St Paul's Church, Battersea Power Station, things I recognize - though only dimly and without knowing why -; also some less familiar iconic sights : a glass house like a fat cigar, a huge ship very far away.Like my own face, the scenery seemed a little strange, but somehow familiar.

"I think I know this place," I said.

"Yes," said Ben. "Yes. We've been here a while, though the scenery keeps changing."

Let's move on.Most of the benches were filled with people, either alone or in pairs.We walked to a bench near the top of the hill and sat down.I smelled ketchup; a half-eaten burger had been thrown in a cardboard box under a bench.

Ben carefully picked up the sandwich and dropped it into a trash can before sitting back next to me.He pointed to some iconic landscapes. "This is Canary Wharf," he said, pointing to a building.Even if it is far away, it looks extremely tall. "It was built in the early 90s, I think. It's all offices and stuff."

the 90s.I find it odd to hear someone sum up in a few words the decade I've lived through without remembering it.I must have missed a lot.So much music, so many movies and books, so much news.Disaster, tragedy, war.Some countries may have fallen apart entirely while I lost my memory day after day.

I also missed so much of my own life.There are so many views that I don't recognize, even if they are in front of my eyes every day.

"Ben?" I said, "tell me about us."

"We?" he said. "You mean?"

I turned and faced him.There was a gust of wind blowing over the top of the mountain, chilling the face, and somewhere a dog was barking.I don't know what to say; he knows I don't remember anything about him.

"I'm sorry," I said, "I don't know anything about you and me. I don't even know how we met, when we got married, or anything else."

He smiled and moved along the bench next to me, putting his arm around my shoulders.I'm just starting to back off, only to remember that he's not a stranger, but someone I'm married to. "What do you want to know?" he asked gently.

"I don't know," I said, "How did we meet?"

"Well, we were all in college at the time," he said. "You just started your PhD, remember?"

I shook my head: "I don't remember. What did I learn?"

"Your degree is in English," he said, as an image flashed in front of me, quickly and suddenly.I saw myself in a library and vaguely recalled being writing a dissertation on feminist theory and early 20th century literature, although in reality the dissertation was a side project I might devote to writing fiction ; these papers my mother may not understand, but she at least thinks it is the right way.The shimmering scene lingers for a moment, almost palpably real, but then Ben speaks and the image fades away.

"I'm doing my degree," he said, "Chemistry. I see you all the time. In the library, in the bar, everywhere. I'm always amazed at how beautiful you are, but I've never been able to talk to you .”

I laughed out loud: "Really?" I couldn't think of myself as a person who fell in love at first sight.

"You always seemed so confident and serious. You would sit for hours surrounded by books, reading, taking notes, and sipping your coffee. You looked so beautiful. I never imagined You'd be interested in me. But one day I happened to be sitting next to you in the library and you accidentally knocked over the cup and spilled coffee all over my book. You're very sorry, even though it didn't really matter, We cleaned up the coffee, and I insisted on buying you another cup. You said you should buy me a cup, and you should be the one to say sorry, so I said ok, and we went to have coffee together. That's it."

I tried to imagine that scene, recalling that when we were young, we were in the same library, surrounded by wet paper, smiling.But can't remember.I felt the cold blade of grief stab me.I suppose every lover loves the story of how they met—who spoke first to whom and what—but I don't remember ours at all.The wind whipped the tail of the little boy's kite like the guttural sound of someone dying.

"And then what?" I said.

"Well, we dated, normal, you know, I finished my degree, you got your PhD, and we got married."

"How did you get married? Who proposed to whom?"

"Oh," he said, "I propose to you."

"Where? Tell me what happened."

"We were very much in love," he said.He looked away and looked into the distance: "We are always together. You share a house with someone, but you are rarely there at all, most of the time you are with me. It is logical that we want to live together, Want to get married too. So one Valentine's day, I bought you a bar of soap. Expensive soap, the kind you really like, I took off the cellophane packaging, pressed an engagement ring in the soap, wrapped it up and sent it Here you are. You found the ring when you were going to bed that night, so you said yes."

I secretly smiled.Sounds a bit messy, with the ring and the soap, and there's a good chance I won't use the bar of soap or find the ring for weeks.But nonetheless, it's a romantic story.

"Who is sharing the house with me?" I said.

"Oh," he said, "I can't remember, a friend. Anyway, we got married the next year. In a church in Manchester, not far from where your mother lives. It was a fine day. ... I was still doing teacher training at the time, so we didn't have a lot of money, but it was still good. The sun was shining and everyone was happy. Then we went on our honeymoon, to Italy. The Lake District. It was beautiful."

I tried to imagine the church, my wedding dress, the view from the hotel room.nothing.

"I don't remember anything," I said. "Sorry."

He averted his eyes and turned his head so that I could not see his face: "It's okay. I understand."

"Not many pictures," I said. "Scrapbook, I mean. Not a single picture of our wedding."

"We had a fire once," he said, "where we lived before."

"Fire?"

"Yes," he said, "almost burned down our house and we lost a lot of stuff."

I sighed.Things seem so unfair that I have lost my memory and no witnesses of my past.

"and then?"

"Then?"

"Yes," I said, "and what happened? After the marriage, after the honeymoon?"

"We moved in together. We're very happy."

"And then what?"

He sighed without saying a word.Impossible, I thought.My whole life can't just be said and done.That can't be all of me.A wedding, honeymoon, marriage.But what else do I expect?what else?
The answer came out of nowhere.children.child.I shivered and realized that this was the missing piece in my life, our family, that seemed to be missing.No pictures of sons or daughters on the mantel—holding diplomas, going rafting, or even just idly posing for pictures—I never had a baby.

I felt the disappointment hit me hard.Unsatisfied desires have been deeply rooted in my subconscious mind.Even though I wake up every day without knowing my own age, I have a vague idea that I must want a baby.

Suddenly I saw my mother talking about the biological clock as if it were a bomb. "Go and achieve what you want to achieve in life," she said, "because if you're fine today, maybe the next day..."

I understand what she means: Boom!My ambitions would disappear without a trace, and the only thing I wanted to do was to have children. "It happened to me," she said, "and it happens to you. It happens to everybody."

But I didn't, I think.Or something else happened to me.I look at my husband.

"Ben," I said, "and then?"

He looked at me and squeezed my hand.

"And then you lose your memory," he said.

my memory.In the end, it came back, and it was always impossible to escape.

I looked up at the sky above the city.The sun was low in the sky, shining faintly through the clouds, casting long shadows on the grass, and I realized that it was going to be dark soon.The sun will eventually set and the moon will rise into the sky.Another day is coming to an end.Another lost day.

"We never had kids," I said.This sentence is not a question.

He didn't answer, but turned to look at me.He took my hand and rubbed it together, as if to ward off the cold.

"Yes," he said, "yes. We don't."

Sadness was etched on his face.Is it for himself, or for me?I have no idea.I let him rub my hands and held my fingers in his.I realized that despite all the confusion, I felt safe with this man.I could tell he was kind, thoughtful, and patient.As bad as my situation is now, it could have been much worse.

"Why?" I said.

He didn't say a word.He looked at me with a pained look on his face, pain and disappointment.

"How did this happen, Ben?" I said, "how did I come to be like this?"

I think he tensed up. "Are you sure you want to know?" he said.

I stare at a little girl riding a bicycle in the distance.I know it can't be the first time I ask him this question, not the first time he has to explain these things to me, maybe I ask him every day.

"Yes." I said.I realize this time is different, and this time I will write what he told me.

He took a deep breath: "It was December, freezing weather. You were out working all day, and on your way home, it was actually a short distance. No witnesses. We don't know when Either you were crossing the street or the car that hit you hit the pavement, but either way you must have hit the hood of the car. Your injuries were serious, both legs were broken and an arm was broken and collarbone."

He stopped talking.I can hear the low beat of the city.The sound of traffic, the sound of an airplane overhead, the whisper of the wind blowing through the trees.Ben squeezed my hand.

"They said your head must have hit the ground first, so you lost your memory."

I closed my eyes.I don't remember the car accident at all, so I don't feel angry or even sad. Instead, I'm filled with silent regret.A sense of emptiness, a ripple across the lake of memory.

He held one of my hands tightly and I held his with the other, feeling the chill and the hard wedding ring in his hand. "You're lucky to be alive," he said.

I felt a chill run through my body: "Where's the driver?"

"He didn't stop, it was a hit and run. We don't know who hit you."

"But who would do that?" I said, "who would hit someone and drive away?"

He didn't say a word.I don't know what I was expecting.I thought back to my meeting with Dr. Nash, which I had read in my journal.A neurological problem, he told me.Either structural or chemical is possible.Or a hormonal imbalance.I guess he was referring to a disease.It was the kind of thing that happened suddenly and for no reason, a natural disaster.

But the cause at hand seemed worse: someone else had done me a wrong, which could have been avoided.If I had taken a different route home that night—or if the driver who hit me had taken a different route—I would have been fine.I might even have been a grandmother.

"Why?" I said, "Why?"

It wasn't a question he could answer, so Ben didn't say anything.We sat for a while in silence, our hands clasped tightly together.It was getting dark.The city is shining brightly, and the lights are turned on in every building.Winter is coming, I think. November is almost halfway through, and then comes December, Christmas.I can't imagine how I'm going to get to those days from this moment, I can't imagine living the same string of days all the time.

"Shall we go?" said Ben. "Home?"

I didn't answer him. "Where was I?" I said, "The day I got hit by a car. What was I doing?"

"You were on your way home from get off work," he said.

"What job? What am I doing?"

"Oh," he said, "you have a temporary job as a secretary—personal assistant, really—at a law firm, I think."

"But why—" I didn't finish the sentence.

"You need to work so we can pay the monthly payments," he said. "It's tough, but only for a while."

That's not what I mean.What I'm trying to say is, you told me I have a Ph.D.Why would I accept a secretary job?
"But why should I be a secretary?" I said.

"It was the only job you could get, and it was a bad time."

I remembered how I felt earlier. "Am I writing something?" I said, "Writing a book?"

He shook his head: "No."

So writing was a fleeting dream.Or maybe I tried and failed.When I turned to ask him, the clouds lit up, and a moment later there was a loud boom.Surprised, I looked around, and the distant sky was shining with sparks, and the stars fell to the city below me.

"What's that?" I said.

"It's fireworks," Ben said. "It's Bonfire Night soon."

After a while another firework lit up the sky, and there was another bang.

"Looks like there's going to be a fireworks show," he said. "Shall we go see it?"

I nodded.It couldn't do any harm, though I kind of wanted to hurry home and write a journal, and write down what Ben told me; but I kind of wanted to stay, hoping he'd tell me more. "Okay," I said, "let's go watch the fireworks."

He smiled and put his arms around my shoulders.The sky went dark for a moment, then there was a crackle, a hiss, and then a tiny spark shot high into the air with a thin whistle.It stayed in the air for a moment, and exploded into a brilliant orange light ball with a bang, very gorgeous.

"Usually we'd go to a firework show," Ben said. "It was one of the big viewing spots. But I forgot it was tonight." He rubbed his chin against my neck. "Is it okay now?"

"Good." I said.I looked out at the city, at the explosion of color over the city, at the brilliant lights: "Good. That way we can see all the fireworks."

He sighed.Our breath forms a mist in front of us, intertwined, and we sit silently watching the sky turn into colorful bright colors.Smoke rose from the gardens of the city, illuminated by lights of all colors—red and orange, blue and purple—and the night became foggy, oozing with the dry, clanging smell of gunpowder.I licked my lips, tasted sulfur, and another memory popped up.

It is as sharp as the point of a needle.The sound is so loud and the colors are so bright that I don't feel like I'm watching but as if I'm in it.I felt like I was falling backwards, so I grabbed Ben's hand.

I saw myself with a woman.She had red hair, and we stood on the roof, watching the fireworks.I could hear the beat of the music in the room below my feet, and a cold wind blew through, blowing acrid smoke high above us.Despite wearing only a thin skirt, I felt warm, extra high from the alcohol and the joint I still had between my fingers.I felt the sand under my feet and remembered that I had left the shoes in the girl's downstairs bedroom.She turned to face me, and I looked at her, feeling alive and dizzy with joy.

"Chris," she said, taking the cigarette, "would you like a pill?"

I didn't understand what she meant, and looked blank.

She laughed. "You know it!" she said. "Pills. LSD. I'm sure Nigg brought some. He told me he would."

"I don't know," I said.

"Come on! It's fun!"

I smiled, took back the joint and took a deep breath, as if to prove that I was not a boring person.We promise ourselves that we will never be boring.

"I don't think so," I said, "That's not me. I guess I'll stick with this, and the beer. Okay?"

"I think so," she said, turning her head from behind the railing.I could tell she was disappointed, and even though she wasn't mad at me, I wondered if she'd go without me anyway.

I do not believe.I've never had a friend like her.Someone who knows everything about me, someone I trust, sometimes more than myself.Now I look at her, her red hair blowing in the wind, the tail of the joint glowing in the dark.Is she satisfied with the gradually finalized life?Or is it too early to tell?
"Look at that!" She pointed to where a Roman fireworks tube had exploded, its red light casting shadows on nearby trees. "It's fucking pretty, isn't it?"

I laughed and agreed with her, and we stood in silence for a few minutes, passing cigarettes to each other.In the end she gave me a soggy butt, which I didn't take, and she crushed it on the tarmac with her boot.

"We should go downstairs," she said, grabbing my arm. "There's someone I want you to meet."

"Again!" I said, but I went anyway.We pass a couple kissing on the stairs. "Wouldn't it be another idiot who took the same class as you?"

"Get out!" she said, walking down the stairs quickly, "I thought you liked Alan!"

"I did like him!" I said, "until he told me he was in love with a man named Christian."

"Yeah, okay." She laughed. "How could I have imagined that Ellen would pick you for his coming out statement? This one is different, and you're going to love him, I know. Just to say hello. don’t worry."

"Okay." I said.I pushed open the door and we joined the party.

It was a large room with concrete walls and unshaded light bulbs hanging from the ceiling.We walked over to the eating area for beers and found a window seat. "Where's that guy?" I said, but she didn't hear me.The effects of alcohol and marijuana made it hard for me to dance.The room was full of people, most of them dressed in black.Fucking art students, I thought.

A man came and stood in front of us.I recognize him.keith.We had met before at another party and ended up kissing in a bedroom there.But now he's talking to my friend, pointing to a painting of hers that hangs on the living room wall.I don't know if he decided to ignore me or if he didn't remember we met.Either way, I think he's an asshole.I drank all the beer.

"Would you like some more?" I said.

"Okay," my friend said, "I'll stay with Keith, you go get some beer? Then I'll introduce you to the guy I was talking about. Okay?"

I smiled: "Okay! Whatever." I wandered to the food area.

Someone is talking, next.Talk loudly in my ear. "Chris! Chris! Are you alright?" I was confused; the voice sounded familiar.I opened my eyes and was surprised to find myself outside, Ben calling my name in the night on Capitol Hill, with fireworks turning the sky blood red. "You closed your eyes," he said. "What's the matter? Is something wrong?"

"Nothing." I said.My mind was so confused I could barely breathe.I turned away from my husband and pretended to watch the rest of the fireworks show. "I'm sorry. It's okay. I'm fine. I'm fine."

"You're shaking," he said. "Are you cold? Want to go home?"

I realized I wanted to go home.I do want to go home, I want to write down what I just saw.

"Yes." I said, "Do you mind?"

On the way home I thought about the hallucinations I had while watching the fireworks.I was struck by its clear texture and sharp edges.It completely captivated me, as if I was there again.I feel everything, taste everything.Cold air and beer bubbles.Marijuana burning deep in my throat.Warm Keith's saliva on my tongue.That image felt real, almost more real than the life I opened my eyes to when it was gone.

I'm not sure when the picture happened.In college or just out of college, I guess.The party I saw was the kind students like.No responsibility, no worries, no worries.

And, even though I don't remember her name, this woman means a lot to me.my best friend.Always will be, I used to think, and even though I didn't know who she was, I felt safe with her.

A question flashed in my mind, a little curious whether our relationship is still very close.I tried to mention the vision to Ben as we drove home.He was quiet—not unhappy, but a little absent-minded.For a moment I wanted to tell him all about that image, but instead I asked him what friends I had when we met.

"You have some friends," he said. "You're very popular."

"Do I have a best friend? Someone special?"

Then he looked at me. "No," he said, "I don't think so. I'm not particularly impressed."

I don't know why I don't remember this woman's name, but Keith, and Alan.

"Are you sure?" I said.

"Yes," he said, "I'm sure." He turned to look at the road.It started to rain, and the lights from the stores and the neon signs overhead reflected the pavement.I had many things to ask him, but I didn't say a word, and after a few minutes it was too late.When we got home, he had already started cooking.too late.

*****
I had just finished writing when Ben asked me to go downstairs to dinner.He had set the table and poured white wine, but I wasn't hungry and the fish was dry.I have a lot of vegetables left over.Then—since Ben cooked dinner—I offered to clean it up.I removed the dishes, put hot water in the sink, and kept hoping later that I would find an excuse to go upstairs and read my journal and maybe write some more.But I couldn't - being alone in our room most of the time would have aroused suspicion - so we spent our evenings in front of the TV.

I can't relax.I thought about my journal and watched the hands of the clock on the stove slowly tick from 9 to 10 to 10:11.As they approached [-], I realized I didn't have much time tonight and said, "I think I'm going to bed. It's been a busy day."

He tilted his head smiling. "Yes, dear," he said, "I'll be right there."

I nodded in agreement, but as soon as I left the room, fear sent a chill down my back.This man is my husband, I tell myself, I'm married to him, but I still feel it's wrong to sleep with him.I don't remember doing this before, and I don't know what to expect.

In the bathroom, I went to the toilet and brushed my teeth without looking at the mirror or the photos around the mirror.I went into the bedroom to find my pajamas folded on the pillow and started undressing.I want to get ready and get under the covers before he comes in.For a moment I had the absurd idea that I could pretend to be asleep.

I took off my jumper and looked in the mirror.I see the beige bra I put on this morning and a flash of a childhood image of me asking my mom why she has a bra on and I don't and she tells me I will one day.Now the day has come, not step by step, but suddenly.Here, more than the wrinkles on my face and hands, I am no longer a little girl, but a woman.Here, that fact is on my soft, full boobs.

I put on my pajamas and straighten them.I reached into my pajamas and unbuttoned my bra, feeling the weight of my breasts, then unzipped my trousers and pulled them off.I don't want to look at my body any more, at least not tonight.So after taking off the leggings and shorts I put on this morning, I quietly got into the quilt and closed my eyes and lay on my side.

I heard the clock downstairs strike the hour, and Ben came into the room after a while.I didn't move but listened to him undress and the bed sank as he sat on the edge.He didn't move for a moment, and then I felt his hands rest heavily on my hips.

"Chris?" he said, almost in a whisper, "are you still awake?" I whispered yes. "You remembered a friend today?" he said.I opened my eyes and rolled over on my back facing the sky.I could see his broad, naked back and the fine hair scattered over his shoulders.

"Yes." I said.He turned and faced me.

"What do you remember?"

I told him, though only vaguely. "A party," I said. "We're all students, I think."

He stood up and turned to bed.I saw him completely naked.I had to fight back the urge to giggle as his cock dangled from its furry black lair.I don't recall seeing male genitals before, not even in a book, but they were not new to me.I don't know how much I know about them, what experience I have had.Almost involuntarily, I turned my head away.

"You've thought about that party before," he said, pulling back the covers. "I think you've thought about it a lot. Certain memories of yours seem to pop up on a regular basis."

I sighed.Nothing new, he seemed to be saying.Nothing to get excited about.He lay beside me, pulling the quilt over the two of us.He didn't turn off the light.

"Do I think about things often?" I asked.

"Yes, some things. Most days."

"The same thing?"

He turned to face me, propping himself up on his elbows. "Sometimes," he said, "usually. Very rarely."

I looked away from his face and looked at the ceiling: "Did I think of you?"

He turned to me. "No," he said.He took my hand and squeezed it tightly: "But it's okay. I love you. It's okay."

"I must be a terrible burden to you," I said.

He reached out and touched my arm.Static crackled.I shrink back. "No," he said, "not at all. I love you."

He leaned over to me and kissed my lips.

I closed my eyes, a little confused.Does he want to have sex?He was a stranger to me, and although intellectually I knew we shared the same bed every night, every day since we got married, I had known him physically for less than a day.

"I'm tired, Ben," I said.

He lowered his voice and began to speak in a low voice. "I know, honey," he said, gently kissing my cheek, my lips, my eyes. "I know." His hand slid down under the quilt, and I felt a wave of uneasiness, almost panic.

"Ben," I said, "I'm sorry." I grabbed his hand to keep it from slipping.Resisting the urge to throw the hand away - as if it were some nuisance - I stroked it instead. "I'm tired," I said, "not tonight. Okay?"

Without saying a word, he withdrew his hands and lay down on his back.There were waves of disappointment in him.I do not know what to say.I kind of felt like I should apologize, but more than anything I felt like I had done nothing wrong.So we lay in silence, in the same bed but not close together, and I kind of wondered how often this happened.How often does he come to bed longing for sex?Are there times when I feel like having sex or feel like I can respond to him?If he didn't respond, wouldn't there always be this embarrassing silence?
"Good night, honey," he said after a few minutes, the tension gone.I waited until he snored lightly before slipping out of bed to sit down here in this empty room and write this.

I want to remember him, even if only once.

(End of this chapter)