Recently something happened – it was disappointing and shocking; I had been too sure of myself, and not realistic enough, it looked like. It made me think. So in the last few weeks, I slept a few nights with the light off. I never imagined the darkness to be such a good medium to think in. My eyes would be open and I would notice the light from the nearby street lamps, and the neighbouring house, and the moon, and I would be able to think very clearly about some things that meant a lot to me. Or perhaps that’s not such a good description; what I mean is, lying on fresh sheets in that dark room right next to the window veiled by translucent curtains, I was able to delve into favourite memories, and feel safe re-living them, and their implications; who I had been in those memories was frequently slightly shocking, and what I had done and not done frequently a cause for satisfied and recriminatory sighs.

So there was this girl, whose voice I enjoyed listening to tremendously, whom I thought I loved. My knowledge of love being culled from books and songs and shows, I really don’t know if that’s the case, but I thought I did. She gave my sister – my sister is one of my favourite people in the world – she gave her a birthday present back when I hardly knew her. Our first phone conversation lasted until early in the morning, when the cordless ran out of juice. She had the easiest phone number to memorise; I still know it. She told me I was the first person to beat her in reversi, and it seemed to matter to her; I remember her pouting, not happy. We were friends for quite long, year upon wasted year, and eventually I told her I liked her, and we remained friends.

Then, one day, she told me she was getting married. They had been impeccably matched; she related a story that made it clear he was the one.

Soon after that, I stopped thinking of her everyday. I wonder how she is now.

Funny – I used to know her fragrance; I don’t know whether it was from her shampoo or soap or something else, but I used to know it when I smelled it; not anymore.

Author: lichone

Ethics by Enid Blyton; physique by deep-fried things. I think we all have an instinct to tell stories and to build things and relationships,

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