Page 13 of Love Sick

My heart begins beating faster and colors swirl before my eyes. It feels as if I’ve stared at the sun for too long and suddenly looked away. I can see images I don’t recognize through a veil, but no matter how hard I try and remember, I just can’t.

A frustrated sigh leaves me.

Every part of me begs I fight, but I’m so tired. I don’t have anything to fight for.

A whistling interrupts my pity party for one. I hear it often, but never bother to pay attention to it. But today is different. I wonder why that is. As the whistling gets louder, I focus on the tune…it feels familiar.

Lifting my chin, I peer at the man a few feet away from under my lashes. My long hair shrouds my face, so I feel confident he can’t see me staring at him.

He’s an older gentleman and appears quite content sweeping the floor. I look at his hands. Each wrinkle represents a second lived. A breath taken. I like measuring life that way.

But a sudden sadness drags me under because life was robbed from someone…no, fromtwopeople I loved very much.

But who?

“Dry those tears, pretty one.”

My ruse is up, so I don’t bother with pretenses and meet his stare. I wait for recognition.

For something.

Anything…

All I’m confronted with is a big fat nothing.

I don’t even realize I’m crying until the man says that I am. The thing is, he couldn’t see my tears. But somehow, he knew.

He sweeps toward me, looking from left to right. I think he’s ensuring we’re out of earshot. We’re in the clear for now.

“What did she do to you?”

I continue staring at him, hoping a spark of recognition hits.

“Do you remember me?”

The theme song ofThe Brady Bunchin the background conceals his question from prying ears.

This is the first time I’ve wanted to answer someone. I get asked endless questions in therapy in hopes that one day, I’ll answer. But I never do.

So I shake my head.

I know that I should remember, but I don’t.

“Do you remember…him?”

Him?

I’m suddenly robbed of air and I squeeze my eyes shut, afraid I’m about to be sick. This is a bittersweet memory I don’t want to remember because I know that it ends in tears.

“Do you want me to tell you?”

Tears slip into my lips as I nod slowly.

“There’s the fighter I know,” he says, which makes my heart swell. It’s nice to know that I once was. “You almost beat her. You both did. My name’s Old Timer. It’s what he called me.”

“Let’s just say we have come to an understanding. He helps me. I help him. And he’s the best help I’ve had in a while. He calls me Old Timer, by the way.”

The memory catches me off guard and I stare at Old Timer; not the present, but the past tense.

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