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The body betrays itself with another. Lips kiss when none should
have occurred. The tongue is more sinister as it slides around
in the cavern of another mouth. Words are uttered that the heart
has no intention of believing. Eyes give away the game as they
closely watch an object of desire. Hands grab and pull bodies
together; they collide and crash.
Was he too young or too old to have so many memories?, he wondered
to himself. That scent in the air, that way the light hit the
trees—what did those make him recall? Jeremy’s mind
was somewhere in between here and there. He did recall the last
cigarette from the previous year. After exhaling his own private
little gas cloud he threw the butt in the city river. He tried
to listen for the extinguishing hiss--the river was louder.
Kicking his habit, he later decided, was not for his health.
A few weeks of sweating out an addiction were nothing as Jeremy
was attempting something more difficult. He was trying to shake
a memory. A thought can not be forgotten—it can only be
remembered.
Donna gave worthless advice. She told Jeremy in a late night
conversation to just give it time. Faces blur and locations
disappear eventually, she said. An actual order of events is
left to the forgotten ages. Jeremy frustrated himself with scant
details. He could vaguely recall drinking in a pub and sliding
easily in drunkenness, but conversation was a blank. No, worse
than blank. Blank proved something at least once existed, but
this was just nothing, an absence. Photographs and ink fade
and the blame rests with the technology, but forgetting is your
own fault.
“No, you’re smoking that cigarette all wrong--inhale,”
Ben said. Well, if he said that at all, but he said something
like that. Jeremy recalls mumbling an apology and breathing
more deeply. Relations were stretching to a break. What happened
then? Was that the night that ended with only a quick pat on
the shoulder? Jeremy thought he departed for a destination north
the next morning. He had seen Ben walk away with too many women
at the end of the night. And that was the end, no?
Memories revisited are then laid to rest, so Jeremy hoped. But
this one lingered like the smell of cigarettes on a jacket.
There was more to the affair. Jeremy knew that he and Ben were
meant for more—they were destined for poetics and not a
casual fuck. With the next morning brushing aside Jeremy began
to realize the latter. At a diner table his feet rubbed against
Ben. “Your feet are very restless. Please stop,” he
asked.
“You do know about Ben, don’t you?” Jeremy wished
he could forget the next events, but he had his revenge. Years
later he was still amazed that a few confidential words to one
person could turn into a stigma. Whispers in the ear turn to
rumor to gospel truth. Ben cornered Jeremy. “People think
I’ve been with men—there’s a story going around.
Did you have anything to do with this?” His voice trembled,
“You know there are girls; I have a girlfriend!” Jeremy
lied, “No, I don’t know how that began. People have
asked me—I tell them it’s simply not true.” But
rumors linger (though less time than memories). Jeremy recalls
his damage control had little effect. Did Ben believe him? Jeremy
never knew; he would rather forget.
Jeremy recalls going to northern towns and still thinking of
Ben. It’s not like he saw him in the stars that hit closer
to the ground with the higher latitude. Ben had left town when
Jeremy returned. Empty spaces into empty hearts. He tried to
let it all go. If memories could be removed from the brain so
easily, he would have set them on a tray to fade and shrivel
in the sun.
A letter was sent to Ben that received no reply. Months after
that Jeremy had a call from Ben. Certain things were best left
unsaid. Ben told Jeremy that he thought he would die before
the year ended. No lips betrayed any other emotion, if there
were any at all. Ben never returned any other calls. He passed,
he faded.
| Matthew
Patrick, January 2002 |
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