She woke up with a headache and an intense longing to hear his voice. Between being buzzed and the almost carnal need to smoke, she chose to search for a way to find him again. You see, she has already imagined how he would sound like. He would speak in perfect English in a hushed baritone voice. He would have impeccable grammar but at the same time, he would be quirky and spontaneous. When he asked her who she was, she froze. As verbose as she is, she didn’t know what to say. She would have wanted to be witty. She could’ve said that she was Clementine. He knew what she would do given selective amnesia. She could have given him a book title or an author and without saying anything else, he would’ve understood. He would’ve known it was her on the line. Instead, she ended up saying: “You don’t really know who this is?” Thirty-two years of existence in addition to the belief that they were of the same intellectual wavelength and she started the conversation with a question of self-worth. Only a fucked up person does that.
When he said “No,” she realized that she had not made an imprint on his consciousness contrary to his claim a few days ago. It took him more than an hour to send an SMS asking if it was really her. It’s ironic how instead of using her real name, he asked her by the “character” they created. In truth, their universe revolved around words but for her, he meant more than that. She could’ve responded. She could’ve created a masterpiece to tell him that in the end of it all, she was in love. After he ended the call, she deleted the log on her phone. Along with it were his messages that came hours after she felt the remnants of her heart die.
Here’s to a beautiful story never to be written.