Flash Fiction Friday #26

The challenge this week is this sentence: "Remember? How could I forget? I recall it specifically because the…" To learn all about the giddy gauntlet of a challenge we call Flash Fiction Friday, go here.

Remember? How could I forget? I recall it specifically because you had forgotten my name. Not that I hold you responsible. A name like Guy has a habit of slipping through the cracks. People often place the word “some” before me. As in, “Some Guy over there asked me to go to coffee.” “I met some Guy at a party.” “Him? Oh just some Guy.” And soon enough, the “some” melts into a faceless “all,” an “everyone” and a nobody. The “some” is a mask that blurs my face and smushes my nose like robbery nylons over my head.

I don’t know if you specifically remember me as a person either. Maybe you were being polite when you said, yes, you know we’ve met somewhere before but, you’re sorry, you don’t remember my name. So polite and genuinely so, your mom would be proud. More flies with honey than vinegar. Am I a fly? A buzz you track with a craning neck only to see air, never to pin down the small, black movement you may or may not have seen.

It was a Thursday. I know because Thursday is the day we have the recording studio. I was outside waiting for the female singer, new girl auditioning for our new fusion project. Last time it was Rockabilly meets Punk but now we were going for a more Classic Country with an undertone of Electronica and, of course, a Punk Rock beat. Seems that lately anything can be new again and any song covered afresh if there’s a punk rock beat. The sappier and kampier the original, the cooler the punked out version.

You were waiting outside for a friend, smoking a cigarette. There’s a brewpub next door and parking is difficult as it’s purely on the street. I asked you if you were the singer, remember? I’d never met her. Could’ve been you. Do you sing at all, I asked. In the car, you said, where the upholstery dampens the sharper edges and the windows contain the sound in a nice, glass bubble. I can imagine the notes slipping out into the atmosphere when you open the car door, silent and lost.

We spoke of music. We discussed Alien Ant Farm’s remake of Smooth Criminal by Michael Jackson. Annie, are you okay? Are you? No, really, are you? You had never heard of Eddie Spaghetti but laughed at the name of their first album—Sauce. But you knew The Reverend Horton Heat and I introduced you to my dog, Horton, who was shedding lazily beside me.

And then later you were there, I definitely remember, at the Tattered Cover on 16^th Street and Wynkoop. In the local authors section. I was in Science Fiction I am not ashamed to say, though many would think I should. It felt so typical. The hip in-the-know chick reading up on local literature with what I’m sure was a Chai Tea Latte versus some Guy in the SciFi with a Mountain Dew. And you said, yes, you know we’ve met somewhere before but, you’re sorry, you don’t remember my name.

But your dog’s name is Horton, you said. My nylon mask burned away in a blush and I will always remember that, Amy. Your name is Amy.