Shifting Memories

The clock says 9:53 and Dizzy’s playing through tinny speakers. Cedarwood, bergamot, tobacco leaf. When a man’s scent makes you wonder, you’d best have him buy you a drink.

“Excuse me.”

He’s busy with some tomato-faced jailbait in a black skirt.

“Excuse me sir,” I hang onto the end and he turns.

“Ain’t she a little too pretty for you?”

A smirk and the blonde doesn’t know how to take it. Floorboards creak, his leather jacket stretches, and now my head’s at his chest. A maroon falcon with a silver trout in its talons is printed on his tight undershirt.

Angry, I look away. “The hell you showing that off for? This ain’t the place.”

His eyes are still taking me in as he opens his mouth.

“If there is a place, it’s this one. Look around,” motioning to the room, “look beyond the faces. Everyone here is Guild, just like you and me.”

In my mind I blur out the faces–and it all starts flooding back. Friends, lovers, fighters–family I saw get shot–chatting and drinking at tables around the room. On a chair in the corner is a kid that took her last breath in my arms.

“You’re at home, Vivi.”

Voice like ice, the bergamot…it can’t be him.

“No,” I back up, “We lost.”

His hand grabs mine.

“Come have a drink, Vi. Let’s talk about what happened.”

The clock says 9:53. The melody that played when our base was infiltrated by puppets of the regime. I look at his face, which looks like a
patchwork police sketch.

“You remember me, don’t you? What’s my name?”

It’s close, but this thing isn’t him. I look to the exit. I’m frozen and the music doesn’t stop. That damned smirk of his.

“I could really use a drink.”