Eleven
“Only the past matters up here. Those little snapshots you call memories: random and out of order portrayals, developed once and then left in a shoe box in the corner of the attic. We collect them: we like them.”
In her fancy evening dress and makeup the woman is a changed person. For a moment I consider saying something, then think better of it. She makes a dismissive gesture and takes a sip of chilled Chablis. I’m not sure when or how she got a drink. Will I be offered one? Probably not. I wipe the palms of my hands against my legs and try to relax.
She crosses her legs and leans back while absentmindedly playing with the pearl necklace. “You think you can improve, change, evolve, become. Why not just stop and look at yourself? Try to actually remember?” She giggles and says “you should see our slide nights, how we revel in the faux pas that is you and your equals: all the missed chances, the dropped balls, the endless, stupid fumbling.”
Suddenly angry, I lean forward to say something when i notice a tiny bead of sweat on her upper lip. Curious, I look closer and am suddenly aware that things aren't what they seem: her makeup is liberally but poorly applied. She has lipstick on her teeth and the rouge on her cheeks is uneven and garish. Up close that dress doesn't look so fancy anymore: it's too small for her and several beads are missing. I suddenly smell her: dried up sweat hastily covered with cheap perfume.
Uneasy with this scrutiny, she shrinks away from me and claps her hands. Without warning a bald, caucasian man, overweight but not excessively so, enters the room. She beckons him over and whispers something in his ear. He nods, comes over to me, grasps my arm lightly and says: “You are not able to go any further. Time you and I were on our way.” He smiles, warmly. “I'm the janitor, by the way.”