Chapter 11

11

Memories are a curious thing.

I exhale the smoke through my nostrils, an inkling of a cough suppressed in my lungs, and notice the young woman has been curiously looking at me for some time.

"You look really familiar to me," she says once her eyes meet mine.

I ponder her statement, flicking the end of the cigarette, sending ash willowing through the air. Familiarity is also a curious thing. The curve of my nose could conjure a recollection of an uncle, my unkempt hair that of her boyfriend's father. Add up all the features of anyone she's ever met and I'm sure, somehow, it could possibly total up to a "me".

I am also a curious thing.

"I was thinking earlier, on the bus, that you remind me of someone I knew a long time ago," I responded. "Really?" Her spirit visibly rises. "What was her name?"

"I...I don't know. I can't seem to remember all that much right now."

"Oh. That's ok. Well, what's your name? Can you remember that?"

"It's Richard," I reply, extending my right hand. "At least I can remember some things. What's yours?"

"Jamie." She takes my hand, shakes, releases, and pulls out her pack of cigarettes again. She draws two from the bunch and gestures them to me. "Do you want another one? I always chain smoke when I'm nervous."

Her name hits me like an obituary. A friend you haven't heard from for years suddenly winds up sending her car over a cliff and this is how you find out about it. Black, white, words...empty, but haunting. I reel from the discomfort, like pieces of a broken typewriter lying scattered on a hardwood floor.