a salesgirl tells a man, in this story, "i talk to you in my head all the time". he holds open her glove for her, or a mitten, a red one. rambling in ink records so many more small and otherwise forgotten anecdotes; in my efforts to be vague, i wonder where the attention to detail will jog my future memory. that one thing that happens, though, where i remember remembering things even since a wind-up toy in an otherwise forgotten hallway, can surely help me repeat the associations and recall even that sweet little thing. i may have to break down and write it into thee old idiary, because i know i just can't say it.
another thing i remember: the power lines, and knowing that they spoke to something dead, belittled as i put them into print, and only treasured years later as they still meant just the same thing. sixteen of them, maybe, lined up just where i couldn't not see them, before lights started to go out.
earlier in the day: drinking mexican coffee, wondering if you like my outfit, being reminded to be embarrassed of a thing i know i must have done but just can't recall. remembering a line with no memory of what it meant, its origin destroyed in little fanfare: i am falling off the proverbial bike.
