The contents of a faulty memory stick

There are times when she would remember him, for what he used to be, or maybe who she thought he was. Those were times that she both loved and hated, wished for and rejected, basked in and wanted to forget, but they would always come to her when she least expected. Somewhere within her mind, he was always there, etched, remaining and not forgotten. The invisible hold he had on her refused to go away and she didn't understand why, after all this time, she would still be enthralled by him. At those times she would wonder what he's doing, is he living it up somewhere in the world, does he even remember her, does she matter at all? probably not, but in all fairness, he ceased to matter to her a long time ago. He was a memory that wouldn't be deleted, a faulty memory stick that had a virus on it and he was that virus.

There were good memories that she wanted to erase; him bringing her coffee when she was sick, making fun of her squeaky voice, the interesting political debates they had and the way he'd get so into the debate that his voice would involuntarily louden, so much that people in the cafe would look at them. The way he looked at her; she never understood if it was adoration, wonder or nothing at all. The way he drove his car; fast in tight spaces, she would make fun of it, but she always felt thrilled and happy when he drove. The way he'd comfort her when she is anxious; making her see things for what they are, rather than what her anger made them be. The way he would shut the whole world, but still take her phone calls. The way they would spend hours together, outdoors, him smoking his cigarettes, her sipping her coffee; both happily nursing their addictions. The way he would never get cold and he would make fun of her coat because it looked like a fireman's. The way he looked in his blue shirt and black pants, clean shaven and the top two buttons of his shirt would be undone. The way he listened to her even when she was unaware of it. The way he thought he can do anything and succeeding at it. The way he liked to compete with her even though she never cared who would win. The fact that he thought he was handsome, even though she would tell him he wasn't and secretly thinking that he was. The way he was always honest with everyone just to prove that he cared for nothing.

She remembered, she would remember and always remember those moments and things. She wanted to believe he wasn't good as he always said, she wanted to erase him from her memory, she wanted to go back in time and never meet him. She wanted to forget him just as he forgot her, but it always seemed impossible. She feared meeting him, talking to him or finding his traces anywhere, she feared what they would to her. She had gotten used to his disappearance, hating it, but also living with it, like room mates who barely tolerated each other. He was the past and she wanted him to remain there, a collection of memories in a faulty section of her brain.


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