Nothing Prescribed

He forgets. She doesn’t know how he can.

Sometimes, she wonders if it’s wilful. She sees them around the house, on window sills, on the dining table. He pulls them from his pocket, a look of puzzlement on his face.

While he forgets, she remembers. Things lie heavy on her heart. She takes pills of her own. Nothing prescribed. Nothing as bad as she used to take, although it’s reaching a tipping point. The heaviness in her heart keeps her awake at night. So she takes over the counter medication. A cocodamol here. A Nytol there. She still doesn’t sleep, but at least she’s fuzzy enough not to care. Sometimes she takes over the counter alcohol. She is soft core.

It isn’t hard to remember. It’s the remembering that causes the heaviness. She wishes she could forget. That leaving things behind could be as easy as getting on a bus and moving away from them. But memories follow you around. Disillusionment clings to your ribs. Thoughts leak from your mind and lodge in your throat just behind the suprasternal notch. She presses the place where they stick sometimes, for no clear reason.

No, it isn’t hard to remember at all.

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