Page 43 of Forgotten
I give up sleeping in the guest room, claiming the left side of our bed. My side. I ignore Ash’s grin when he settles on the right side, arms open and waiting for me to snuggle in. There is nothing I want more but I still wait a full ten seconds before rolling over. Every night, Ash’sarm settles carefully around my brace and his cold feet chase mine until I agree to share my warmth.
Every morning I wake up alone and I find Ash outside with coffee. Sometimes the cigarette is still lit, sometimes we both pretend the cigarette butts in the ashtray are old. One day he’s on speaker phone, and I recognise the voices of his friends Sydney and Darshi with a background of screaming children. They all scream my name and wish me a quick recovery, and stop chatting about whatever they were talking about before I showed up.
One morning I find him typing furiously on a laptop. It is raining lightly but Ash seems unbothered.
“They’re making them waterproof now?” I ask cheekily.
I’m holding the black mug in my hands, having discovered, after a couple of failed experiments, that I do like coffee when drowned in milk and sugar. Ash faked knowing nothing about it.
“I was inspired,” Ash says.
That day I learn he’s finishing a doctorate in English Literature and that every sentence counts. Together we sit under the light rain, Ash typing the hours away, and me going back and forth between the couch and the patio. I’m not sure why it strikes me, how passionate he is about academics. He always has been.
Some days we don’t speak much.
Ash lets me do the cooking, and he wolfs down everything I make, from eggs to salads to simple pies. In a silent agreement we bypass the dishwasher and pressclose at the sink, hips touching and shoulders brushing as Ash washes the dishes and I try my best to dry them off with one arm. After every meal, I drag myself onto a soft surface and close my eyes until Ash shakes me awake with a soft voice and the ghost of a kiss to my hairline.
We don’t speak much, but those days we kiss a lot. I cannot seem to stop myself. Every morning I wake up and I need more of Ash’s soft lips on mine, more of the erratic pants. More of Ash.
I don’t overthink it. I allow myself to feel at home with him and make my choices. And the more I reach for him, the more Ash lets go.
When I first take a shower, he holds the towel out to me and politely looks away. I clear my throat and his eyes are back on me, and I step into his space, letting him dry my body, finally clean. Dry but sweatier and hotter than before.
When I make him an entire portion of bacon, he wraps his hands around my neck and kisses the top of my nose.
“You should be thanking that pig,” I suggest.
He brings the plate to his lips and kisses the pile of bacon, “Thank you pig.” He smiles diabolically, looking straight into my eyes.
And those days, when I feel like crying because I don’t recognise the clothes in my closet nor do I have any idea where my mother lives now, I walk up to Ash, bite his lower lip and I don’t stop sucking until I forget who I am, too.
By now, I know every detail of the photos on my phone. I have stared at each snap endlessly, forcing my brain to remember a detail, a smile.
Every day I wake up and I pick a couple, eager to know if the sight of either Ash or my daughter brings back something. Anything.
It brings back nothing.
With each new day, I get a little moodier. A little less motivated. Sitting on the patio brings me no joy. Kissing still brings me joy, but a little less joy than the first time. It makes me sad, really. It makes it hard to sleep. It makes me only want to sleep.
???
Four days after I have been sent home, we order take out and eat on the couch. When I suggest a movie, Ash’s eyes sparkle.
“You wanna know what the best thing about this is?” He’s almost yelling, jumping up and down with some old DVDs, and I can’t look away, can’t speak.
“Here! Do you remember these?” Ash throws himself next to me, enthusiastically spreading three cases on thecouch.
Getting the hint, I sigh. “First of all, DVDs?” I ask. Hasn’t the world evolved?
Then I look at Ash and his proud white smile is answer enough. I give up and study the titles.
“No, I don’t remember these,” I admit, and before I’m even done speaking, Ash is sprinting up and opening one of them.
“Ford. Baby.” With a little dance, Ash presses play.
“Will I regret this?” I ask as Ash is snuggling beside me so naturally it can’t be the first time.
With a shy smile, Ash concedes, “Probably. But you made me watch that Batman crap thousands of times. You owe me. And besides, you love me, so.”
