An Old New Memory

I've seen you before. Not here in the hallway. My hallway. You don't live here; I remember now, in Italy. Back in, oh, ninety-four, ninety-five? Thirty years ago. I wish it weren't you, but it is. The most beautiful girl I'd ever seen, and looking at you now, you still are. Sorry, Julie, I lied. But you left me for your childhood friend, so I guess you lied as well.

You haven't aged a bit since you tried to keep the Leaning Tower of Pisa from falling. I used to hate those kinds of pictures; you changed my mind with sheer beauty, and just like it did that day, the wind gently catches your long dark hair in that too perfect way. But it's not perfect; we're in a hallway, there is no wind here.

It's been a long week. I desperately need some sleep.

People think a woman leaving you for another man is emasculating; try being told by a bunch of kids fresh out of college how to do your job. Many of whom I recommended. I'm a manager by title only, earned by being the first in the office to learn the power of Microsoft Excel. These new kids, however, are practically programmers. They tell me what they need to do the job, and I don't have enough knowledge to argue back, so I just say yes. At this point I'm nothing more than a digital janitor, making sure every license is up to date and every computer is up and running. I used to be the wizard of this place.

As I ponder when I lost my grip, you return. In the same white floral dress as yesterday, dancing around the empty meeting room. What are you listening to? The soundtrack to Amélie, maybe? A good fit for your European vibe. Ridiculous. You're not listening to anything; it's just my exhausted mind having a minor breakdown. Still, it's hard to take my eyes off you. I catch a look from the hallway, one of the new guys; it forces my gaze back to the monitor. Useless walls made of glass, I might as well sit in the open office with the rest of them. I squeeze my eyes shut as a way to reset my brain. When I open them, you're gone. I've found a workaround, a rule, I can make you disappear. It soothes my mind.

The boss makes his Friday 3:30 PM walk through the office to wish everyone a good weekend, or more likely to make sure no one leaves early. He knocks on my door and I wave him in. He asks me if everything is alright. I tell him it is. He cocks his head and takes a closer look. I add that I'm just tired, but it's Friday; I'll be back at full force next week. He asks me if everything is alright at home. I tell him yes, which is technically true, seeing that it's just me there. I never told him about the divorce. It's been over two years. Just let me know if there's anything I can do, he says and puts his hand on my shoulder. The importance of a comforting touch. I remember that lesson from the workshop on how to be a good leader. The weekend he thoroughly proved this lesson by cheating on his wife with some woman he picked up at the hotel bar. It made me furious. Not because of the cheating, but because I was jealous; also, I'm the only one who knows about it.

Saturday morning you appear in my living room; I'm no longer soothed. You've never been this close. Even though I'm standing only two meters away, you don't notice me; just keep dancing like you always do. Standing here looking at you, I can't help but smile. You look so calm, and happy. It brings up the somber fact that I haven't danced since my wedding. Not even when I've been alone. I step over to my collection of CDs, covered in a thick layer of dust from years of silence. Genesis, Yes, Gentle Giant. So much goodness. I turn to ask you if you have any preferences, but you're gone, and it hits me. Being crazy has become a regular part of my life. My knees buckle and I fall to the floor, bringing the rack of CDs down with me. I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them, the CDs are still there; you are still gone.

I have no one to talk to, and even if I did, I wouldn't. As far as I know, there's been no mental illness in our family history. The internet tells me of dozens of diseases that can cause hallucinations, the most likely one being stress. It makes sense, but it's dumb and self-inflicted. So what if a bunch of kids are better than me? That's the whole point of being a manager: finding and nurturing talent. Another lesson from the workshop. In fact, I'm doing my job to perfection. If the boss confronts me, I'll tell him exactly that. I spend some of the weekend practicing the eventual conversation with the boss, and the rest of it sleeping.

Sunday evening, it's like a heavy fog has been lifted from my mind. I haven't seen you since yesterday. I'm back to normal.

But I'm not back. You follow me everywhere, including now, in the doctor's office waiting room, reading a fashion magazine. So that's all my creativity has to offer: dancing and reading. Great. As I sit here opposite to you, I can't help but wonder if there is such a thing as good news. Whatever the doctor says, whatever he gives me, can I ever be sure? Before they've had the chance to call my name, I'm out the door. I rush home and get directly into bed. It's just stress. All I need is some proper rest, and away from this apartment.

The next day I ask my boss if I can take a couple of days off, just a brief vacation to recharge. He tells me sure, and hints that maybe it should be a permanent one. I tell him I'm not that old; I just turned fifty-two. What i don't say is that I can't afford to retire yet. Think about it, he tells me as I leave his office with the non-see-through walls.

You meet me in the hallway, and later in the living room as I pack my bag. I head to the car and start driving with no real plan. I expect you to suddenly pop up in the rearview mirror; but you don't, and I think I understand. Another rule: your entrance needs to be logical. I smile as I think about it, the many rules of being fucking crazy. If I understand them all, will I win my sanity back?

Sitting here in the driver's seat with the city disappearing behind me, it's hard to not miss having Julie next to me. We used to take these trips all the time in the early days. Our marriage was fun. Until it wasn't. Somewhere along the way we stopped doing things, falling into a routine of going to work, staying in, and going to work again. For ten years this was our routine; then she started going out with her girlfriends. Or so I thought. My routine never changed even after she left. In my younger days, I was obsessed with the thought of not losing my freedom. So was Julie; having kids was out of the picture for both of us. I've never been as free as I am now. Free and alone. Was this really what I wanted?

I stop for gas and make sure to keep my eyes on the car at all times. It works, you don't return. But soon the sun will have made its complete retreat behind the horizon, and I'm already struggling to keep my eyes open. I stop at the first hotel and get a room; you're already there. Is that in the realm of logic? I put my bag on the bed and take off my jacket. The old wooden floor creaks as you move around in your eternal dance. More than ever before, I feel your presence: the smell of your newly washed hair, the way your dress hits the end of the bed as you do a slow pirouette. I walk over and take your hand. It's warm, soft. Real. Your eyes meet mine.

"You're trembling," you say with an Italian accent. Why Italian? Weren't you a tourist like me?

"I know," I say. "Because you're not real."

"Don't be rude," you say, and press my hand.

But you're not real; you are merely a memory of a girl in her twenties I never dared talk to. A reminder of a path not taken. You give me the same inviting smile you did back then. The smile that haunted me for years. But this time, instead of just walking past, I pull you into an embrace. Your breath washes like a warm breeze over my neck, anchored by the calm of your pulse.

No.

I let go and take a step back, allowing myself a final look before I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them, you're still there.

You're frowning.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I'll never do that again."