Who was he, do you know? I only have bits and pieces of him—although I’m pretty confident it was a him. A beard underneath a warm smile, the scratch of a moustache against my lips…
So, who was he?
Did he love me?
Why can’t I remember?
All I have are these little bits and pieces of a memory, not even a whole one. I don’t have a name or a place—was he here, in this tiny apartment with me? Or were we somewhere else when we were together? I think…
I think there were flowers. And there’s no garden here. Pretty sure, anyway.
No, you’re right, there’s no one here but you and me, and you’re nothing like him. So he and I were in a different place, one with a garden that was full of flowers in…in the summer, right? Yes, that sounds good. Warmth on his smile, gold dusting his—his hair? What color was it? No, I know you couldn’t say. It’s just gold in my mind.
It’s winter outside now. Gray, heavy clouds spit something slick at the windows. It’s not quite ice, but I can’t remember the name for it. Oh, right—sleet. I knew that.
How long have I been here? I wish I knew. Maybe I should write down today’s date, what’s happening. Might help me remember.
…Do I have any paper? Or a pen? Where did I put them—oh, thank you. I wouldn’t have thought to look there.
I wish that the man was from a long time ago, so long that of course it’s natural for me to forget, of course he’s forgotten me, that’s normal, that’s natural. He was a summer, once, a long time ago. Barely even a memory.
Do you think he was more than a summer? No, I know you don’t know. I’m just…wondering.
Did I love him?
Why did we stop, do you know? Why did he—I—stop?
Maybe it was okay. Maybe we parted as friends, two lovers on different paths, just a spoon in the road. Right, I meant fork. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe these not-memories, these…glimpses, are good things. Comforting things.
But I can’t stop thinking about what he said, “I’m so sick of…shit.” I heard those words, I know I did. Sometimes they repeat in my dreams, with angry eyes and a mean mouth and nothing kissed with warmth or gold.
And the thing is, I can’t remember—what did he say? Was it, “I’m so sick of this shit”? Or was it, “I’m so sick of your shit”?
“Your”? Or “This”?
You’re right—it probably wasn’t a big deal. People fight all the time and it doesn’t mean anything, except…that sentence, five out of six words—that’s all I can remember.
I wish I knew what I’d done, if it were my shit he was sick of. Was it the fact that my mind doesn’t work anymore? Did it not work then, when he said it? Was he there when it began? When I…when I ended?
Or was it something else?
I…I don’t want to know. I mean, I do, but what if it really was my shit? What if I did something wrong, something bad?
You’re right, you’re right—sometimes forgetting is a blessing.
Wait, what? What do you mean, we’ll have this conversation again tomorrow? Are you leaving? Oh, okay. You promise you’ll be back? You won’t get tired of me? That’s…that’s good of you to say it. Yes, please do write it…oh, you already did. You even put your name there at the top. Sam. Okay, thank you.
It’s a really nice name. Makes me think of sunshine.
I’ll remember it this time.
I promise.
Sally Sultzman (she/her) was a reader first, a writer second, but always a storyteller. She’s been published with Cast of Wonders, Tales of Sley House, Die Laughing, Luna Station Quarterly, and Not a Pipe Publishing, as well as the anthology, Disability in Dystopia, and the anthology, To Appalachia With Love, which she also edited as Sarah STETS. A member of SFWA, she lives in rural Illinois with her family, her rescue dog, and a collection of oversized tea mugs.
Website: www.sallysultzman.com
Instagram: @sallysultzman
Bluesky: @sallysultzman.bsky.social