The Persistence of Memory

Two of us, each on a treadmill. We're subtly competing with each other, inching the speed higher and higher. I wouldn't figure out that we were competing, or why, until later. Much later. I can be so stupid sometimes.

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Only slightly out of breath, she asks me how I feel about my fiance joining the fire department. Do I worry about him getting hurt? Not coming home? (He'd already started not coming home, for reasons that I couldn't discuss with myself, or my friends or my family. Certainly not her.)

I answer, casually, something about wanting him to be happy, and fate and love.

We keep running, her perfect blond hair streaming behind her, her strides even and sure.

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Weeks later: we laugh at you.

He's drunk, but calm. This is because he's already yelled, and thrown things, and ripped my engagement ring off my finger. He looks at me, triumphant. He knows how to hurt: we laugh at you.

The answer that I gave without thinking has been dissected and thrown back at me. Too late, I understand why she asked me.

We laugh at you. I guess it was funny.