Fading

There are many ways of forgetting the past. Personally, I enjoy pulling out a bottle of scotch from the liquor cabinet, removing a crystal tumbler and some ice cubes from their respective places, pouring A into B, sitting back and allowing the bitter liquid work its magic, erasing selected memories.

Sometimes, that doesn't happen.

Our goodbyes are a little strained. Uncomfortable. Unforgiving.

After getting home, I realize I have something that isn't mine and have to return. Shit. The last thing I want take part in another strange and awkward encounter.

So, doing what any passive-aggressive person would do, I e-mail a short message about what happened.

"Hey. How are you doing? Hope you enjoyed your weekend. I realized when I got home, I forgot to return something of yours on Friday. You know Fridays, right...?" La di da. Light and breezy.

On Tuesday morning, I check my inbox. There it is. The reply. I click on the message. "Thanks for the reminder. You can just mail the stuff back." Short. Not too sweet. Tastes like artificial sugar.

Alright. The rules of the game are written, and I can read between the lines. Subtle. You don't want to see me. Hint taken.

Let me say that if it wasn't for the fact I mentioned I had something of yours, you wouldn't know. Now, that you do know, you want me to mail it back to you. Costly. Today.

Let me also say that since you have a sturdy pair of legs and a car, you can easily come by and pick up your things. Cheaper. Yesterday.

Like that game? Thought so.

Now, if you don't mind, I have to get back to my drink. Memories are fading in a cloud of auburn. Fading. Fading...