I Can’t Remember Her Name

I thought I’d forgotten her.

I didn’t think about her for days, not about the way she stretched first thing in the morning as though the day couldn’t start without her. I didn’t think of the way she’d laugh at herself when she did something wrong, or forgot why she’d come into the room. I didn’t remember how she would curl her legs underneath her when she sat on the sofa.

Most of all, I didn’t remember the way she would lie her head on my chest with my arm wrapped around her as we sat together watching the latest vids.

I forgot about the way she argued with our Sambot about the best way to make a cup of tea and glared at him when he went off to recharge. She said he was sulking because he knew deep down in his chips that she was right.

She was always right.

Eve when she was wrong I knew – as she knew – that deep down in some other sense she was right, just that she needed time to work out how her being wrong was actually right.

I knew that in the end I would be proved wrong, so I accepted it as inevitable, even though sometimes that proof was somewhat tenuous and only loosely based on logic and bore scant resemblance to the facts as I remembered them.

But then as she often pointed out I didn’t have such a good memory as her.

Which is why I don’t remember her now.

I can’t even remember her name.

I could ask Sambot to remind me. But these days he wanders around the house as though searching for something. If he breathed, he’d be muttering something under his breath about how to make a cup of tea. I see his memory activity lights flickering when he is engaged in some mundane trivia in a way they never did before she came into our… my life.

I almost asked Sambot if he remembered… whatshername, the other day. But he – unlike me – has a perfect memory… apart from about how to make a good cup of tea, obviously. He probably remembers that time she kicked him in the motion unit for ironing her dress the wrong way. I, of course, don’t remember anything like that happening.

I don’t remember the arguments. What few arguments there were, because I was always wrong, or if I thought I was right it was because I remembered it wrong.

I can’t remember the day she left.

It was my fault of course. She always said I was the one who didn’t do enough, that I was too busy sitting in my study staring out of the window at the bleak landscape of this planet, dreaming up stories for the entertainment vid scripts. Meanwhile she was out terraforming this place from a barren wasteland into a home.

She often said that I never realised what a dangerous job it was, out there in the bleak deadly nothingness, trying to turn a dead lump of rock green and fecund.

That last day she left for work, I wish I could remember if I kissed her goodbye or not.

But then again I think I’d rather believe we had that one final kiss.

I could ask Sambot, but I’m afraid he’ll tell me the truth.

 

Published by David Hadley

A Bloke. Occasionally points at ducks.

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