She watches him stir, push back the quilt and reach for his notebook.
Only when he’s read yesterday’s notes does he turn to look at her.
“Hi,” he says.
“Yesterday was great,” he says, lips brushing hers.
He’s adapted quickly, too quickly perhaps. Without that notebook he’d have no recollection of her, of how they spent the day. And he believes that to be his fault.
But her forgettability is an uncanny gift, a trick of her trade, the way she makes her living.
And when she moves on, as a kindness, she will destroy his notebook.
I read a book recently where a young woman suddenly finds that no-one remembers her, starting from when her parents forget to set a place for her at the dinner table, and look at her blankly when she enters the dining room. Eventually her ‘gift’ leads her to a life of international crime, where even on the rare occasion when she’s apprehended, she’s released because no-one can remember her or why she was apprehended once they’ve left her presence. I’ve experienced the same forgettability myself as I’ve grown older, but I’ve yet to take up shoplifting…
The unforgettable Rochelle Wisoff Fields, who could never be just another face in a crowd, leads us into another week of Friday Fictioneers.