It turns out she needs a place to stay for the night. I stare back, my weight resting lightly against the edge of the dining table. 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.