Shit, you're the last person I wanted to see. She looks away, out the window. Across the courtyard, from a half-open window, an obese, hairy arm thrusts out a kettle and tilts it to water a potted dead plant. Memory is a funny thing. A friend tried to explain it to me once.
Memory is storage of information.
Storage of information requires energy. Memory can also be converted back into energy, just like mass can be turned into energy. Maybe I'm just losing more and more brain cells. As I watch her swaying, windowed profile, I wish for the right incantatory sequence to happen, to be there, if only for a moment, where we used to be. Dawn illuminates her sleeping profile through the window, head against the glass, her breath periodically forming vapor trails across the dim sky.