“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t see it.”
She’s walking over to the closet. “That’s why everybody likes you—you never see anything wrong with anybody.” She starts rifling through the clothes, looking something to wear. “Hey. Recognize this?” She reaches into the closet, pulls out a plaid skirt on a hanger. Short, of course. “Don’t you remember?”
You shake your head.
“I wore it That Night.”
“What night?”
“You know.” She waits, then when you still have no clue: “The night of Our First Time.”
Oh. “It was dark,” you explain. “I couldn’t see much.”
Heather looks annoyed. She hangs the skirt back the closet, slides a bunch of hangers over to bury it.
The hangers make a screeching noise as she moves them across one by one; solids, prints, pastels, plaid, lace.
Then she stops and pushes the other clothes aside to look at a dress. She slides her hand down the silky fabric You don’t recognize that one, either.
Heather sighs. Obviously, this dress has a nice memoryattached to it. “Am I supposed to remember that one, too?” you ask.
“No,” she says, and sweeps the dress aside. “You know what I like about you? The way you smell. Some guys slap on cologne like it’s mosquito repellent. But you just smell like a person. Like sun and wind. Maybe just a little sweat. And I like the way in the evenings sometimes you get a little five o’clock shadow, like you need a shave. It gives you this bad-boy look. Very sexy.”
She pulls out a blouse, removes it from the hanger, starts to put it on—then glances at you, and with faintest of smiles, drapes the blouse over the doorknob before she walks back over to the mirror, and brushing her hair. The show’s not over yet.
She scoops her hair up with both hands, holding it top of her head in a mass of curls. Her neck is long arched. “If you look in that bottom right-hand drawer, there’s a basket with ribbons and stuff. Can you through and find a clip that looks like a butterfly? It’s gold, with big wings.”
You roll over, reach down, and pull the drawer open. There’s a bunch of papers in it, and a box made of dark wood, with a duck inlaid on the lid; it looks like something that a man would own. But it’s the only thing that’s even remotely like a basket, so you take the lid off.
The box is empty except for a piece of paper that’sbeen torn to bits and taped back together. It’s old; the Scotch tape that holds it together is yellowing.
it’s better this way i know Heather will forget i hope you will forgive
“Not that drawer.” Heather’s beside you suddenly, slamming the drawer shut so quickly that it almost catches your fingers. “I said the right side.”
“Sorry,” you say.
“Forget it.” Scowling, she goes back to stand in front of the mirror and starts playing with her hair again, but her hands can’t seem to remember where they left off; locks slide from beneath her fingers and fall down her neck while she frowns at her own reflection.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I said forget it. Are you deaf?”
“No,” you say, getting angry, too. You roll onto your back again. “I’m not.”
“Apparently”—Heather whirls away from the mirror—“you are.” She walks over to the blouse hanging on the doorknob, pulls it free, jerks it over her head. Snatches her jeans up off the floor where she left them.
She won’t come sit on the bed to put her jeans on but turns her back to you, teetering to balance on one foot while she thrusts the other one into the pants leg.
She’s pretty angry. You think about the note, all torn up, then taped back together. About how it looks kind, and how she doesn’t want anybody to see it. And how it seems to be a good-bye.
And suddenly you think you understand why she’s upset. “Heather…” You pull a pillow onto your chest. Push it off again; you’re still thinking. Roll onto your side, prop up one elbow. “It’s okay to—if you
“I didn’t see it.”
She’s walking over to the closet. “That’s why everybody likes you—you never see anything wrong with anybody.” She starts rifling through the clothes, looking something to wear. “Hey. Recognize this?” She reaches into the closet, pulls out a plaid skirt on a hanger. Short, of course. “Don’t you remember?”
You shake your head.
“I wore it That Night.”
“What night?”
“You know.” She waits, then when you still have no clue: “The night of Our First Time.”
Oh. “It was dark,” you explain. “I couldn’t see much.”
Heather looks annoyed. She hangs the skirt back the closet, slides a bunch of hangers over to bury it.
The hangers make a screeching noise as she moves them across one by one; solids, prints, pastels, plaid, lace.
Then she stops and pushes the other clothes aside to look at a dress. She slides her hand down the silky fabric You don’t recognize that one, either.
Heather sighs. Obviously, this dress has a nice memoryattached to it. “Am I supposed to remember that one, too?” you ask.
“No,” she says, and sweeps the dress aside. “You know what I like about you? The way you smell. Some guys slap on cologne like it’s mosquito repellent. But you just smell like a person. Like sun and wind. Maybe just a little sweat. And I like the way in the evenings sometimes you get a little five o’clock shadow, like you need a shave. It gives you this bad-boy look. Very sexy.”
She pulls out a blouse, removes it from the hanger, starts to put it on—then glances at you, and with faintest of smiles, drapes the blouse over the doorknob before she walks back over to the mirror, and brushing her hair. The show’s not over yet.
She scoops her hair up with both hands, holding it top of her head in a mass of curls. Her neck is long arched. “If you look in that bottom right-hand drawer, there’s a basket with ribbons and stuff. Can you through and find a clip that looks like a butterfly? It’s gold, with big wings.”
You roll over, reach down, and pull the drawer open. There’s a bunch of papers in it, and a box made of dark wood, with a duck inlaid on the lid; it looks like something that a man would own. But it’s the only thing that’s even remotely like a basket, so you take the lid off.
The box is empty except for a piece of paper that’sbeen torn to bits and taped back together. It’s old; the Scotch tape that holds it together is yellowing.
it’s better this way i know Heather will forget i hope you will forgive
“Not that drawer.” Heather’s beside you suddenly, slamming the drawer shut so quickly that it almost catches your fingers. “I said the right side.”
“Sorry,” you say.
“Forget it.” Scowling, she goes back to stand in front of the mirror and starts playing with her hair again, but her hands can’t seem to remember where they left off; locks slide from beneath her fingers and fall down her neck while she frowns at her own reflection.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I said forget it. Are you deaf?”
“No,” you say, getting angry, too. You roll onto your back again. “I’m not.”
“Apparently”—Heather whirls away from the mirror—“you are.” She walks over to the blouse hanging on the doorknob, pulls it free, jerks it over her head. Snatches her jeans up off the floor where she left them.
She won’t come sit on the bed to put her jeans on but turns her back to you, teetering to balance on one foot while she thrusts the other one into the pants leg.
She’s pretty angry. You think about the note, all torn up, then taped back together. About how it looks kind, and how she doesn’t want anybody to see it. And how it seems to be a good-bye.
And suddenly you think you understand why she’s upset. “Heather…” You pull a pillow onto your chest. Push it off again; you’re still thinking. Roll onto your side, prop up one elbow. “It’s okay to—if you