Fantasy Born Of Memories

He awoke to comforting familiar warmth and a faint smell of apples. Where am I? Who am I? These questions flash through his head in the time it takes for vision to focus on stark sunlight sneaking through the cracks in the blinds. With the first hints of pain foreshadowing the headache to come he answers the questions and remembers himself.

There is movement, a sound. The sound is faint, no louder then a whisper, an intake of breath. He did not make the sound but it is his. It is a part of him. He turns his head knowing what he will see but he is still surprised. She is beautiful. Something tickles his consciousness. A thought almost formed but then gone, he tries to recover it. He tries to hold on but his concentration is shattered as she opens her eyes. They are breathtaking. They are blue, a light blue. He is staring at the sky reflected in chrome. The color shifts. They bleed to grey, a soft grey. In this transformation he sees recognition and something more.

He sees love. Deep within the grey of those eyes he sees her love for him. His mind is fogging up, trying to keep the pain away. He looks into those eyes and tries to anchor his mind in her. He sees his reflection in the grey, a mirror of her. He can see his own love reflected in her beautiful eyes. Her eyes shift back to blue. She is smiling, “Good morning.” Even after a year those words send a jolt through his body. With those words he knows joy. He knows he has one more day with her. A thought is drifting under the surface. He jerks up in bed and even as he is doing it he knows it is wrong.

Pain. The headache comes at him full force. With each stab of pain comes a memory of the night before. At first the memories are random. They mean nothing: A glass of beer, a shot of tequila, smiling faces. Before the pain can tear his mind from his body there is a touch, a pressure. She is drawing him back down, back to the bed and her warmth, her comfort.

The pain starts to subside. It retreats to nothing more then a dull throb. He turns his head to the side, her arm still around him, and surveys the room. Light and dark battle for dominance over the room, shadows war with the sunlight for the soul of this one place where the two exist. He notices the clothes thrown here and there. Memories return and play for him a movie of the night before. Memories of a party, and friends, come first. He does not care about these memories. They are not important.

He fast forwards through the night. He can remember clothes tearing themselves away from bodies to be discarded and forgotten. The memories are coming faster, colliding with each other. His sense of time is gone. He does not know when one memory starts and the other ends. He shuts them off. He concentrates on the passion and the love. Last night is lost but the feelings remain and she remains. There is movement and a sense of loss.

She has risen from the bed and walked to the bathroom door. His world slows down and the thought is floating to the surface. He almost has it. Slowly she reaches for the door knob and turns. Even slower she pushes the door in and steps through. Her back is to him but he can hear the words clearly, “I am going to take a shower. I love you.” Painfully slow now she turns around and looks at him. She smiles as she closes the door. The thought surfaces and he know pain. This is not real. It is only a memory.

He sees red. There is a terrible sound. His vision clears and he is looking at red numbers, nine thirty. He smashes the top of the alarm clock with vengeance born of pain, frustration, and memories. The noise stops. He reaches back for a ghost of a feeling. He reaches for warmth remembered and his hand passes through nothing. She is gone. It is time for work.

As he gets out of bed he catches a glimpse of her from the corner of his eye. He turns too quickly and stumbles. She was never there. He walks to the bathroom and reaches for the handle. The memory hits him so hard he staggers. It is so much like the dream, the memory. She reached for the handle and then was gone. They are one. After all the years apart he can still feel her, still see her.

The shower is done. He is shaving now, looking in the mirror. The image reflected back at him is older, sadder. He brings the razor up to his face and she is behind him, staring at nothing. She is the same, just as he remembers her, young, beautiful. A tear comes to his eye and he blinks. She is gone. He leaves for work. Alone.