I Don't Remember You

a short story by Elena Lappin

There comes a moment in your life when you realise that you’ve run out of time. The places you always wanted to visit, the experiences you fantasised about having, the people you planned on spending time with: none of this would happen, except, maybe, in your imagination. You can watch romantic movies set in scenic Italy and picture yourself taking in the views along with a life-changing flirtation. You can turn a passionate old dream into a light daydream of similar intensity and zero consequences. You can even remember your own excitement of many decades ago and bring it back, secretly, while listening to Otis Redding. Whose life was tragically cut short even before he had time to feel less than young.

I’m saying all this as a pseudo-philosophical preamble to a juicy story I’m about to tell you. Juicy and sad, depending on your own point of view. Mine is impartial and weirdly omniscient.

I once had a hilarious friend called Matilda who was twenty years older than me but very much a kindred spirit. We met on a long cruise, the kind that attracts wealthy retirees, elderly singles and married couples who hate to be alone (with each other). My own presence on the cruise was actually professional. As a writer of English detective fiction, the company hired me to provide education mixed with entertainment to their customers who craved tales of cozy crime and wanted to try their hand at writing it themselves. My weekly sessions took place in the ship’s library, which was surprisingly well-stocked but a little messy. When the sea rocked the boat, the books moved.

This was such a great gig for me. Well payed and, unbeknownst to my so-called pupils, I, too, was a single soul hoping for a romantic hook-up in stormy weather. It never happened.

Matilda was a widow. She had been a widow for over ten years when I met her. About her husband she only said He kept his distance so what was I supposed to do? and she said this with a big smile on her shiny face. Matilda moisturised a lot, wore her hair short and cut into aerodynamic shapes that moved with the sea wind. She looked spectacular for whatever age she was (she never told me). Nature was helped by plastic surgery. My friend said to me Matilda your face looks good but your neck is a distraction.