So this isn't strictly "impromptu" since I wrote it a while ago, but I did write it in an impromptu writing session, so it's just a little past the "Best if used by" date...

"When did you stop remembering?"

It was a simple sentence: part question, part statement, part indictment. It's not a question that is asked if things are going well. She looks at you, something cloudy and hurt behind her eyes expecting a response. You reflect on the question. It's a funny question when you roll it over in your mind: tell what time it was when you stopped remembering what's important. It seems unlikely to you that if you'd forgotten these deep personal truths about her, that you'd have the presence of mind to keep a record of losing that moment. It seems like keeping the index to an encyclopedia set you no longer own.

She's not interested in irony, though. She wants an answer even though you can tell there's no answer that will make her feel any better. She thinks that she's hit rock bottom with this, but you know that this conversation will only succeed in proving to her that she's wrong. There's always a little more pain, humiliation and self-loathing somewhere and it always starts with a question.

You try and smile and reassure her that things aren't as bad as all that--that there's a silver lining here... somewhere. You try and explain to her what you yourself don't understand--that people change even when they don't feel like they have. You tell her that it's evolution--that your little amoeba of a relationship is turning into a salamander and that it's progressing towards something and not away from some point.

But then it strikes you: when did you stop remembering? Was there really anything to remember in the first place or were you both just continuing a lie that you agreed on or both so hoped would be true that perhaps you could will it to be so. Maybe Vonnegut was wrong: maybe you aren't what you pretend to be but you're always flirting with becoming what you're afraid you might be.

She's grown solemn. Her face has become stony and cold. The conversation is all but over now. She'll agree with anything you say now and nod stiffly. She's convinced that this disaster is her doing and she's trying to take responsibility for it--she'll be the better person even if no one needs redemption. You'd like to be able to allay her concerns, to give relief to her, but this is her cross to bear and she'll kick your ass if you try to take it from her.

Maybe this is what you were supposed to remember: that you swore that you'd never be here again, that you'd never watch that grey despair cross another person's face. Maybe you were going to remember the signs and when to just leave and let someone's self-destruction be their concern and not your problem. You were going to let the world take care of itself for a while and try not to control the weather and make every rainy day shine.

Or maybe you just stopped remembering that deep down, you are an asshole; that deep down you enjoy antagonizing the wasps in other peoples' hives and watching the chaos unfold. You like the wash of power that knowing that this storm of fury and wailing is your doing--that you can make someone care about you enough to reduce themselves to this at your departure.

So much to remember and nothing to hold on to. And now she's gone. She says she won't call anymore and you're left fiddling with your napkin hoping that the waitress would bring a refill for your coffee.

You're almost out of artificial creamer, too.

-Joe

BTW, I'm not a huge pro-Football fan (Go Colts) but some things are priceless. To crybabies making a kajillion dollars a year. This is for you...