Whisper a Memory Revision

This is my revised version of Whisper a Memory that i wrote for a creative writing class

Don’t Forget

Whisper something in my ear. Give me a picture, an image, a snapshot. Give me a memory.

I wake up in your arms, your finger tracing the intricate lettering that inks my side. When you notice my eyes flicker open I feel your lips against my shoulder. “Good morning,” escapes between your skin and mine, a raspy crack that tells me you woke up only moments before I did. Rolling over a smile creeps its way onto my own face, a mask at the turmoil coiled inside my body.

“Good morning,” I mimic your words. Your lips press against mine and I do not hesitate to return the action. Your hands on my hips pull me in tighter, and then I protest. “This is awkward,” I say to you. As you slowly pull away a look of puzzlement in your eyes slowly appears. I pull you closer so that my lips are parallel with your ear. “I don’t remember your name,” my words are hushed and hint at embarrassment that I know is evident on my cheeks.

            “That is embarrassing,” you reply as you roll out of bed. You grab a pair of shorts off of the floor and slide them on hastily. You flash a smile in my direction as you make your way out of the room.

Sliding the sheets off of my bare naked body, I feel exposed. As if this is some future world I have not yet experienced, as if I am a tiny mouse in a den of owls, but I know that neither is the case. A pair of jeans that lies on the back of a chair are easy enough to pull on. They feel tight but I know that they are mine. I make my way through the foreign apartment, stopping only to look at unfamiliar pictures. The face of the man I woke up next to is present in each and every one; his blue eyes, long brown wavy hair, and two dimples that accent his strong jaw line.   Too many shots the night before leaves my mind in a blur as I take a cup of coffee, drowning in the hot warm brown liquid.

Whisper something in my ear. Give me your trust, your secrets, your darkest day.  Give me a memory.

The movie stopped hours ago, now we sit on the floor in the near empty living room of the apartment I woke up in weeks ago, fire roaring in its place at the base of our feet. The flames lick the air, the small gas powered fire place providing warmth and light in the dimly lit space. Your hand holds mine, our fingers entwined as you stare into my eyes. The mood in the room is serious, almost to the point of ominous. When your lips part, no words come out. The moment seems wrong. You look broken and my heart breaks with you. “You can tell me,” I say  and what comes out of your mouth is very distant from what I expect.

I expect you to say that you’ve cheated on me, found another man, but it couldn’t be farther from what you actually say to me. You tell me of a man when you were a child. Barely ten, he walked into your room well after midnight.  You called him your uncle and he called you his nephew.  The first time he touched you it hurt the worst; his large hands around your fragile body. The blood that next day was too much and you were embarrassed. You cut your arm with a piece of glass and told your mom that it was an accident. That’s how you covered up the bloody towel. She never knew about your uncle. You tell me that he took the part of you that made you a man.

I tell you that it’s okay. That you’re strong and just the fact that you survived such a thing, makes you a stronger person that most people that are alive today. We talk about how some people’s problems seem trivial related to events such as rape and death, but I don’t tell you that it happened to me too. I don’t give you that piece of me, not yet.

Whisper something in my ear. Give me a feeling. Give me a memory.

You walk in the doors, 8 hours of work heavy on your shoulders. Numbers racing through your mind, you choke down my dinner, and sit in front of the TV. I lean up against you and we watch the Lakers lose yet again. I watch you tighten as the Celtics score a basket, as the Lakers miss another free throw, when Kobe knocks the ball out of bounds for the third time, your hand tightens. The little silver ring on your third finger catches the light and a smile plays at the corner of my mouth. You don’t notice.

At the final buzzer we both get up, shower (separately), brush our teeth, slip into sleeping shorts, crawl under the sheets, and intend to go to bed. I feel your hand trace the letters that have inked my side for so many years. Your lips brush against the back of my neck. Against my shoulder you whisper that you still love me. I still love you too. Your whisper to me about our wedding, describe the table center pieces, the purple orchids that I picked, and tell me about how you enjoyed my classic white suit. You liked the way the light hit my golden blonde hair, you say it created a veil that I refused to wear.

You begin to talk about our honeymoon, how it reminded you of the first night we met. The beauty that restored your love in life and men, you make a joke about how you were glad I remembered your name the morning after we made love on our honeymoon. You tell me that your glad I finally opened up to you, told you my deep dark secret that makes us connected even more.. You tell me that your happy we’ve lasted these last 6 years, that you hope there are six more. I roll over and look into your deep blue eyes. “I love you,” is the only thing I can think of to say.

Whisper something in my ear. Give me the life that we’ve both always wanted. Give me the memories that make up a past, present, and our future.