Beverly Jackson

133 Words I Lost in My Memoir

The slam of cupboards and loud singing wakes me. I have to get my bearings, the strange bed, the fog in my head. Who is that? Wait, familiar voice. Tom!~ I can’t remember precisely what my new husband looks like. My temples throb. His loud rendition of “Hit the road, Jack, and don’t cha come back no more, no more…” makes me wince, and the smell of fresh coffee slightly nauseates me. It’s difficult to get the unfamiliar bedroom in focus.

Birdsong wafts from the floor-to-ceiling louvers on two walls facing a bougainvillea garden. Tropical breezes flutter tall palms. I reach to the foot of the bed for a white peignoir, edged with stiff lace, a gift from Tom’s mother. My cynical friends joked that it was fancier than my wedding dress, a simple pique.

Had we made love last night? I can’t remember.

Tom appears, framed in the doorway, holding a breakfast tray. He’s clean-cut, handsome in an Eagle Scout, asexual way; a whole-wheat kind of guy. Short, light hair, blue eyes fringed with blond lashes. Not my type at all.

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