“You’re something out of a dream,” she said.
“Let’s get you home,” he responded, hiding his smile. The rain started beating down and he slipped his jacket over her shoulders. Everything was hazy for the both of them. She began to dance, twirling and jumping like a drunk ballerina. She paused to look at his youthful face, and the world kept spinning.
Rain dripped down their faces like tears. “I’m not your baby, you know,” she added, somewhat tauntingly. “I’ll never be that girl.” Brushing her lips to his, she got into the car and left him standing in the rain. He just smiled, watching the car, and her face, and the lights, disappear into the darkness.
She woke up the next morning body aching and a craving for cool, sweet water. Missed calls on her phone, unread messages. Surreal images of his face and the rain floated through her mind. Was it a dream? Then, she saw the blue jacket lying on the chair. It was still damp. She hid her smile, for no one in particular.
Opening up her notebook, a quote was scribbled in the corner. “The trick to forgetting the big picture is to look at everything close-up.” She thought about the night before. The rain. Drip, drip. The small smile. Cracked lips. The car as it rolled down the street. Away from him. Every detail overanalyzed, every image separated from one another.
Music drifted in through the open window. An old Motown song she used to hear as a child, when now-forgotten memories were still vibrant and playgrounds were adventures. Suddenly, she got a whiff of rosemary and lavender, like the bushes in the front yard of her childhood home. She remembered burnt cinnamon raisin toast, crystals stashed in dusty corners, pencil drawings on bedroom walls. A lifetime of memories, released by a few faint measures of The Jackson 5. She always hated the way things could get brought up by one small trigger. It’s paralyzing, she thought in disgust. In this world, there’s no real forgetting.
She glanced at her phone. Its multitude of pictures--selfies, blurry ones with friends, candid ones, screenshots--was basically a diary in itself. While she added bursts of thought to the notes section in her phone, the yellow leather notebook lay forgotten on the desk. Once used constantly, it took second priority to the LED screen that held so much information. Nothing was ever lost in the Cloud, except maybe bits of one's humanity. No real forgetting.
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