Forgetting: a microtale

In the morning I woke up unsure of where I was. In the thin light straining through the blinds I saw the man from the bar last night asleep beside me in a narrow bed. A nighstand with beer bottles and a half-smoked joint. Clothes strewn across the floor from door to mattress. Well, I suppose I’d been there to use: me with my sadness and alcoholic ways worn like a badge of weird honor, me with the recent breakup, me with my inconsolable heart and the warm and willing flesh.


I didn’t really stop to think about it. I just got dressed and ready to leave. I didn’t write a note and I couldn’t remember his name. He wasn’t coyote ugly, but I saw nothing in his sleeping face to help me remember why I’d gravitated toward him in the first place.


That’s how it is sometimes. We just end up, however briefly, with the closest body that will have us and hope they help us escape ourselves for a long, shuddering moment. Taking off manufactured identities along with our clothes.


Even the tawdry can be momentarily sublime if we can stand stripped down to spirit, unashamed. I’d like to think we achieved that in the grasp of the night but I really don’t remember and in the grand scheme of things it doesn’t seem to matter any more.



One response to “Forgetting: a microtale

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