A creeping feeling seeps from the floorboards through your feet, past your knees, into your thighs - resting, then flipping and flopping in your gut. This is new. This room, this town. But you know it’s not true (you’ve been here before), it’s just a lie you tell yourself, trying to ward-off the next wave of remembering.
Evening, not yet night, and the rain won’t stop. And the bathtub faucet won’t stop dripping, and your hair is wet from a shower. The coolness, the carpet, the furniture, the wallpaper. So familiar, this could not get weirder. Focus, concentrate, think think think - about here, and now. About nothing, and it’ll pass.
You walk to the mirror over the sink and lean in. You focus your eyes on your eyes. A blank stare. Then your nose. A plain nose. Your mouth. A grin a frown a straight line. Lean forward, farther, until you see pores, and more lines. Earned lines that tell stories. You try to refocus on your mouth, your nose, crossing your eyes. The familiar, moments ago, becomes an unfamiliar blur. Even the lines, less clear. They disappear along with their stories, leaving a youthful face. A youthful face? Only if you could remember. You stare at yourself again. Same eyes. Blink. Same eyes. Blink. You remember. Now you can remember, can’t you? A blur - the stories just out of focus. The eyes that saw them, too.
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