to think of an effective title. So there.
-----
His smile looked like it had been scraped up from an old well of sadness.
“First, she’ll open the freezer to get her morning coffee. Flat White at eight-thirty sharp, as always. Then she’ll open the fridge to have a little poke around, see if she wants anything that’s there. Usually she doesn’t, or there’s nothing to eat, so she closes—no, more like... ‘carelessly prods’ the door closed. She never really had an indistinctive way of doing anything—really.”
His smile sunk deeper, and as he spoke the exact images of what he described came to life behind him; his memories projected from the back of his head onto a screen.
“Then she’d get one of those old-fashioned coffee makers out: you know, the ones where you put the grounds in first and then the water and you push down to strain it? It—it was sort of uh… a family heirloom. Sort of.”
The wrinkles in his hands stretched and caved under his fingers as he wrung them slowly. His body was too far-gone to assume anything but that he was old and tired. Nothing more.
“And after she’d done that she would set down the coffee pot onto the counter opposite the sink and uh—“ a sad muffle of laughter “—twirl a bit to look in the cupboards for mugs. She always did like to wear skirts; she enjoyed the feel of them, how they fell around her, in waves.”
The memories went on behind him. She was a puppet to his strings, dancing in synch to his clenching hands.
“After she found the blue cup Danny gave her for her birthday, she would spin back around, make the coffee, and plop herself right on the counter-”
He brought his hands down on the table.
“-to drink it.”
He reeled his arms back to his sides, letting them settle.
The images stopped and flickered and began to loop the last few seconds of her contented smile as she sipped from the dark blue cup. The kitchen was lit from a white lamp somewhere off to the left, presumably with proper seats and a table. The counter was two or three feet from the row of cabinets and sink and fridge, all pushed together hurriedly. The fridge was smooth off-white, the cabinets wood, the counter some sort of stone. It was all located somewhere central to the house, as he explained before they had a chance to start recording.
All was set except for a few small details.
“What shirt is she wearing? What color? Did she have tan lines? There are patches of pale and dark skin on her arms.”
The old man turned around, and the projection vanished; paradoxes weren’t allowed until after the sale.
“You can’t see it, remember sir? Now, what about her shirt?”
He turned back around with raised eyebrows and hands clutching the stainless steel table. The image came back on.
“Well, uh, I’d say, some sort of uh, bright t-shirt. Sometimes with a collar.”
The haze that had engulfed her torso changed into the picture the man was describing, along with a color- teal.
“And her skin?”
“Well, usually pale, but during the later days she started to go to tanning booths once in a while. Came back one day positively brown- sticks out pretty well in my memory.”
He pointed to his head, and chunks of her arms flashed from pale to tan frustratingly.
“Which do you remember more clearly?”
“Well… I liked her better pale, but the tan is more vivid.”
“Whichever is a stronger memory.”
“The tan, then.”
Her skin settled; the image became more sensual.
“And the color of the skirt is… white?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Good. Well, then, there doesn’t seem to be any more problems. Except…”
“Except what?”
He’d started to pull out his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, and held it mid-thought.
“Earlier, before we started the tape, you mentioned your house was ‘full of windows’. Is that correct?”
“Yes, it is. Margaret and I both loved the light.”
“And, you also said, on the tape, that this all occurred in the morning: 8:30?”
“Yes, yes, what are you getting at?”
“Please don’t get worked up sir, it’ll disturb the Work.”
The old man sunk back into his chair.
“Now, if you’re settled?”
“I am.”
“We will take this time to remind you that although the process is very modern, utilizing the most advance technology available, because of our metropolitan location, we encourage extra insurance. Down payment does not cover burglary.”
“Are Works that desirable?”
“You’d be surprised, sir, especially with clients like yourself, whose reputations precede them.”
He was not impressed.
“People view these records as a form of entertainment. ‘Reality television’ in the extreme. Precious memories for the client, Saturday night for the customer.”
“Their trash, my treasure.”
“Precisely. In any case, we recommend investing in extra protection. Especially as celebrity memories are a highly sought-after commodity.”
There were no windows in the small room, but the man imagined himself looking out into the dark city. He’d looked at it every morning since he was twenty. Nothing had changed, except now he needed glasses to see into the apartment across the street.
“Do you have any coffee?”
“No sir, caffeine tends to skew the projection: activates a trivial part of the brain. Please try and focus.”
“I focus better with coffee.”
The man mumbled. His addiction did not curb after her death. Habit unaffected by heartbeat.
“Would you like some water?”
“No.”
“Then we’ll continue. Our problem is, sir, you’ve told us there were windows all over your house—presumably in the kitchen as well—and that this all occurred in the earlier morning. Therefore, it would make sense that the light source would be coming from one of these windows. However-“
The man’s eyes changed and the image on the wall curdled and shifted for a moment.
“-the Work shows that the only light is artificial, off to the side.”
The image shuddered some more.
“Now, sir, is there something else you might be thinking of, some other, stronger, memory of her than the one you described?”
He was still. His eyes did not blink, his mouth did not twitch, and his hands were folded in front of him. Behind him there was chaos.
The woman changed from sitting peacefully on the counter to running off screen, pulling a man back in with her. The image went fuzzy and blocky, the two figures looping back and disappearing. It skipped ahead, showing the two intertwining wine glasses and arms before hauling the liquid down their throats.
Back to them running in: their faces were clearer now, hers grinning and rouged, the man’s slightly pink and smirking. Then forward to the drinks and suddenly she was pinned to the counter, her face redder than ever as the man pushed himself against her, her eyes dropping closed. Her face remained clear, while the man and his hands darted over her body, getting lost in a blur of gropings and skin.
The entire picture blurred, then went blank and blurred again. It looped the moment her jaw first dropped open and the glasses fell to the floor.
In the next few moments the old man was able to compose his head and backtrack to the original memory, slowly but without reaction. The image shook and flickered, but it was back.
He still hadn’t moved.
“Mr. Jeffreys, Mr. Cornwell: are we done now?”
The two good-looking men seated across the table returned their eyes from behind the old man to his weathered face—older than they had remembered a minute ago. The peach-red tint to his cheeks had bled to his neck, the weak smile bent into a thin straight line across his jaw. The bags under his eyes looked heavier.
“…Yes, I think this will be enough.”
Jeffreys straightened the pages he’d been scribbling notes on and nudged his partner to turn the lights on. Cornwell did so.
“Thank you very much for your patience, sir.
Jeffreys continued.
“We’ll make sure this has been worth your while.”
The old man stared at him as if to say that he very much doubted that now.
“Your Work should be put together by next Thursday and it’ll be in the markets the following Monday.”
Cornwell avoided eye contact with the man, shuffling his own papers as well as Jeffreys’, piling them together nervously.
“Your being the well-known man you are, I’m sure it’ll be within asking price in mere days. Hours, more likely. Your future is in safe hands, Mr—“
“I didn’t come here about my future.”
He snapped. Cornwell stopped shuffling and Jeffreys stopped fiddling with his pen.
“I came here about my goddamn past.”
He hadn’t shouted, but the two younger men’s ears hurt from the intensity. They both discreetly, automatically, switched off the recording system built into the underside of the table.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some affairs to get in order. The doctor says I only have a few weeks left and I want my grandchildren prepared before you go pushing around my brain and I start forgetting what I had for breakfast.”
The man stood, gathering his coat in one arm and pushing his chair under the table. The two boys followed suit, Cornwell hurrying to open the door. Jeffreys extended his hand over the table.
“It’s been a pleasure, sir. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of this.”
The man looked at the hand, but did not make a move to extend his.
“Make sure half the proceedings go equally to my children, the other half to my standing account.”
He walked to the door in three strides exactly.
“That money is for the house… We’re getting more windows.”
And with that he was gone, the two men left with the distinct feeling they were going to hell.
-----
Was going to enter into contest, but twas too long. Ohw.
