Choosing What To Remember

Another one of my third-person entries. Wrote this Saturday night... or more exactly, Sunday morning when I was at Fontana with some friends. Everyone was asleep, drunk, and dreaming. I was the only one awake, and towards the middle of the write-up, another friend woke up. Anyway, I was a bit drunk myself, and I remembered something that happened at the beginning of the year related to me being drunk, so this is partially true. Heh. Anyways...

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Miguel remembered. He sat up slowly from his bed and brought his left hand up to his tubthumping and hangovered temple. He could hear his breathing, and he wasn’t even sure if the breathing he was hearing was actual or from memory. But he could remember.

He remembered dancing. And he remembered reverberations from a soundless drum. It was almost as if a god was preparing for war. The music wasn’t audible but he remembered it was powered with such force that he couldn’t help moving with it, his sinuous body sensuously writhing like a lone fire in a dark windless night.

He remembered stars. There were unusually millions of them beautifully scattered across the cosmos that night. So many in fact, that some spilled over into the sea, to the beach, to the mirrorball spinning slowly, slowly, hanging by the ceiling in the middle of the dance floor. And he swore… swore by everything good and evil in this life that some even landed on his eyes and tongue, and suddenly the world had this incredible tint and taste of gold and silver like in the dreams of that girl or princess or some such in some fantasy movie he saw some time ago when he was still a kid. And it was fucking beautiful.

He remembered Don. And he was fucking beautiful. Amidst the thick haze of smoke and alcohol, he must have been the only other person who heard the soundless drums – must have been the only other person who had stars in his eyes and tongue. Or at least it seemed to him. Because what else do stars do but pull you to their gravity and mingle with your heat? Miguel remembered feeling just that with Don. Gravity and heat.

And Miguel remembered something else. He remembered how it was like being happy. After forgetting how it was like being happy for a long ass time, he remembered everything. The music, the stars, the eyes, the tongue… all these were keys opening forgotten doors everywhere inside him. He remembered Don unlocking these doors one by one that night after the party. He remembered the doors opening. And he was happy.

He remembered being held all night. And he remembered a lot of other things too… so he’s asking himself right now, left hand still willing the tubthumping in his temple to go away, how come everything is suddenly silent? Where has the music gone? Where did the stars go? And why is everything dressed in drab Sunday afternoon sunlight?

He remembered waking up a few minutes ago, hearing doors closing, and him just sitting in place, frozen, with no will to follow. One last door remained open, and Don was holding the knob, poised to go out, and looking at Miguel. “It’s too late, Miguel…” he mouthed.

He remembered a smile, a last shaft of light, and the sound of the last door closing. Click.

And he remembered being sad.

But most importantly, he remembered Julia will be waiting for him three hours hence at the church door, dressed in the most beautiful and expensive wedding gown, smiling with a face full of anticipation of things she would want to remember. Things she would want to remember with Miguel.

Miguel remembered a promise.