I Lost 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.
Beverly Jackson writes, paints, and walks dogs anywhere she can.