Writing False Memories #2

“You could die.”

“I know.” She said looking at me sideways, “Everyday I’m one step closer to death.”

“You’re going to tell us if it’s killing you, right?” I ask void of inflection.

“You’re killing me with this conversation.”

For a second I saw her not as she is, but possibly 10 years younger. Slim body, graceful, freckles, round face plastered with that mischievous smile. I blinked. She wasn’t that way. Time rushed back and I could see the pounds from all the medication. The hard lines of her face and the almost dullness to her eyes. I recognized my lost role as her protector. She’s taller than me. I suddenly felt extremely far away from her.

“That’s not funny.” I said indignantly.

Leaning back, slightly confused she spoke softly, “You can blink now. I’m not going anywhere.”

I couldn’t help that I felt like I was losing her. She aged each time I blinked, I was like the deteriorating flash of the cameras snapping at the Guttenburg Bible.

“I love you.” I blurted out and a slow, creeping silence echoed between us.

“I know.” She repeated, “I’m not going to die right now.”

“Alright.” A long pause grew, as we contemplated what the other was thinking. Pulling at the threadbare couch.

“What would you do?”

“When?”

“If I died.”

“Truth? God,” Running a hand through my hair, “I don’t know – I honestly don’t know.”