"Art is not what you see, but what you make others see." Edgar Degas

Wednesday, September 21, 2016

Fictional Humans of New York (FHONY) - Rudy


I dreamed of her again last night. You tell me, is it fair for the elements of my subconscious to conspire against me? Forgetting should be the easiest thing in the world. I do it all the time. I forget important shit, but her? Never. She had a habit or rubbing her index finger across her lower lip when she was on the phone. She adjusted her glasses with her left hand, must've been a lefty. She pronounced delicious with a bit of a lisp, like 'delisis.' Is there any earthly reason for remembering that? It's been years since I heard her say that, or anything else. At work today a guy asked for my phone number and I drew a complete blank. He must have thought I was a complete fucking moron, which I guess I am. My brain was too busy remembering the way she looked from behind, in jeans and boots leaning on a counter, to remember a random series of digits. 

One of her teeth was a little crooked.

When she was a little girl she had a pet bird named Herman. I don't need information like that cluttering up my crumbling mind. What kind of bird? A cockatiel. I'm sure she only mentioned him once, in passing, but nothing passes where's she's concerned. Except, of course, for her. 

She must have been a delightful little girl.

What did I do last weekend? What was the last movie I saw? What did I have for dinner last night? No fucking clue. What was her major in college? Business administration with a minor in psychology. She let that slip over drinks one night, along with a host of other meaningless shit that's engraved on the inside of my skull.

Her shoe size is 6 1/2. I don't know mine.

A tear slides down my nose before my head hits the pillow because I know I'm going to dream of her again tonight.