The Persistence of Memory

Chapter Two

Stopping a few feet from her, I watch as my emotional innards unfurl themselves in front of her eyes. The shed where I found George - my dog - dead; the telephone mast visible from my bedroom window that I contemplated killing myself on more than once; me, caught on camera age six by my uncle Liam the day of my mothers funeral; the car journey from our house to my nana's on the outskirts of Belfast. Pretty much an amalgamation of every shitty memory I'd ever had. The look on her face tells me that she isn't particularly enjoying it. That was good. No one should enjoy it.

I open my mouth to speak about three times before I get the nerve to let anything come out. What if she did recognise me? What then?

Nah. I was pretty sure there was no chance of it. None whatsoever. She'd barely even given me a second glance back then. I'd spoken to her for two minutes, one day nearly thirteen years ago - she'd never remember me. And strangely, tonight that thought comforts me. Tonight, I wanted to be Aidan Foley, visual artist. Not Aidan Foley, stammering tit from way back when.

"You look like you're concentrating pretty hard," I say quietly, not wanting to startle her. Still, my voice sounds harsh in the sparse space and her head whips around to me. I keep my eye on the screen because I'm still paranoid she might recognise me and I'm not ready to be that guy again. I'm also not ready to see her face again. Not yet. I feel her eyes sizing me up though, deciding something. Then finally she turns her head back to the screen.

"Yes, I am concentrating hard. On being anywhere but here," she says in that clipped English accent. It makes my dick throb harder. Man, she really doesn't want to be here.

"Thought I spotted a foreigner," I smile. I turn to look at her then and she does the same, turning her head to meet my eyes.

Jesus.

At that moment I know that even at eighty she'll still be the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Her skin seemed to glow from underneath, as though there's a light shining below it. The glittering oval blue eyes, the long slender neck, that full mouth I'd fantasised about all my adult life. Eloise Airens.

People used the term, 'The one that got away.' But they never used the term 'The one I never had a remote fucking chance with'. That was more accurate here. Or maybe, 'The one who wasn't even aware of my existence.'

"Sense a kindred spirit did you?" She smiles.

Her smile was still something else. Shy, beguiling and seductive all at the same time. Just like I remembered it. Except I never had those words for it back then. I barely had any words back then.

"Yeah, something like that. You looked a little..... lost," I tell her.

She stares at me, her eyes glittering under the hard gallery lights. Eyes which I'd never really forgotten. They looked different now mind you. A tonal shift. One I knew well. There was pain and misery there now. I'm sure my fucking trip down memory lane isn't helping her misery.

As she stares at me hard, the thought occurs to me that maybe she is trying to place me, that maybe she does recognise me. I turn my head away from her. "So I take it you don't like it then?" I ask. I'm pretty sure I know the answer already.

"I think it's one of the most depressing things I've ever seen," she sighs. 'I honestly don't get why anyone would enjoy this."

Her tone is cutting, but I'm not hurt by it. I also don't get why people wouldn't enjoy it. It's a collection of some of the most depressing memories of my life. I understand why she doesn't want to look at it. Especially since she seems to be drowning in her own misery.

For some reason, maybe to keep her talking, I ask her if maybe she isn't supposed to enjoy it, maybe she's supposed to feel it. The sort of shit critics say to me. It's just words really. It goes down like a lead balloon with her as I can tell when her eyes narrow on me and her shoulders tense.