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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

~

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