Kimberly had laughed at that. Her memory was great. She took pride in it.
Dr. Phan said, “It’s self defense, really. If women were honest with themselves over the pain, the human race would be extinct in a generation.”
I was horrified by the idea and I wished that Dr. Phan would stop trying to frighten Kimberly. But Kimberly wasn’t scared by the warnings. She seemed glad that someone was being forthcoming and not trying to sugarcoat the upcoming trauma.
I suppose that it’s the same way with any kind of pain. Our ability to feel is way more honed than our ability to remember. The best and the worst things in our lives are dulled when we try to imagine them. I hate that. I want to remember precisely the crushing weight of loss. To forget the pain of losing Kimberly and our baby is an insult to their monumental importance. The fact that I continue to breathe and my heart continues to beat is unthinkable. My entire world ended that day and yet my stubborn body continues to live. These sentiments would fit well in a Victorian Nonsensical Love Letter.
I close the notebook and reach up to put it on the dashboard. After a moment of reflection, I move it to the glove compartment.
I settle back down into the footwell. My legs are threaded between the shift levers and I lean back against the passenger’s door. Down here, it feels safe to open my eyes and stare down at my hands.
The Mountain of Pure Rock is playing a block of Heart. Ann Wilson sings like she’s trying to be Robert Plant and then plays the flute like she’s Ian Anderson. I wonder if Heart should be considered innovative because they were women who could match the best of the male rockers, or if they were simply derivative of the most popular trends of their time. I’ve been listening to this station for too long.
(I've fallen into the well.)
I’ve fallen into the well.
My memories of Kimberly are a well. There are no rocks at the bottom. It’s only quicksand. Even if I drown, I’ll never stop sinking into them.
Before her, I used to think that there were two types of people—pleasant people and interesting people. The ones I found pleasant were always operating on the surface. They were polite and upbeat, but not willing to open up to anything deeper. The interesting people were almost always a little bitter or unpleasant. I probably fall into that category. I try to be optimistic, but every time I allow myself to focus on the positive, something knocks me upside the head and forces me to see the bad side of things.
Kimberly had layers.
We met at a picnic. Her neighbors invited her over. I came with a friend from work. The three of us fell into a debate over potato chips. Right away, I could tell that she wasn’t interesting. She maintained the position that Ruffles were just as good as kettle cooked chips, while I argued the opposite.
“They taste just as good, but you can eat more of them without hurting your mouth,” she said.
“Hurting your… Are you twelve?” my friend asked. “Just chew the chips instead of mashing them into your cheeks and gums.”
I waved him off. He was being way too aggressive for a casual picnic conversation.
“Forget the texture,” I said. “I don’t think you’ve properly considered the question of taste. Try these two, side by side, and tell me that the taste of your Ruffles is just as good.”
She raised her eyebrows and tried both. In deference to my friend’s point, she carefully crunched the chips between her teeth as she chewed.
“I suppose you have a point,” she said when she was done.
That’s when I thought the conversation was over. An interesting person would have found a way to continue the debate and get a few more laughs out of the conversation. Kimberly was too pleasant to be deep, or so I incorrectly concluded.
Honestly, I didn’t even consider her beautiful that first time we met.
Kimberly had layers.
The next time I saw her, she was standing in line at the bagel shop next to the dealership where my car was being worked on. It had been a couple of months, so it took me a few minutes to remember where I had met her. I didn’t come up with a name. When she turned and walked towards me, I pointed and said, “Ruffles!”
Immediately, she smiled and said, “Kettle chips.”
“I’m waiting for my car,” I said, gesturing through the window that faced the dealership.
“Join me,” she said. “I’m on my lunch break.”
I nodded and she turned to find a table in the corner.
Honestly, I was half annoyed as the line moved forward and I ordered a sandwich. It was presumptuous of her to assume that I would entertain her over her lunch just because I was waiting. Sometimes nice people do that—they make plans for you assuming that you’re a nice person too. What if I had just wanted to be alone? I had half a mind to make an excuse about how I wanted to be over at the dealership when my car was finished. By the time I got my sandwich and paid, she was looking down at a book, oblivious to me. I could have walked right by.
“You must work for the insurance company,” I said as I sat down. Aside from the dealership and the bagel place, it was the only business around.
She nodded and used her finger to wipe a dab of cream cheese from the corner of her mouth. I don’t know what it was about that gesture. That was the first moment that I felt any attraction to her.
“I do,” she said when she finished chewing. “You?”
We went through the normal details—work, apartments, brief history, etc.
Then, we
