Blot

Is it odd that I blot those moments out of my memory, like I blot out a tobacco stain from linen, or a hand-me-down tablecloth? You can fade the stain, but it never quite comes out. He falls, just like that. A simple moment, and I blot it with memories of chocolate and old conversation. He fell in the dirt. Surprised and clumsy. Or was it elegance? The lack of drama, a simple conclusion. Who is following me? Why can’t I remember that? He is following me. I’ve never had anyone follow me. Ever. I told you that, Mama, but you wouldn’t listen. You made up your fairy tales about attraction and desire lining up to take my hand.

I wish you told me the truth instead of featherbedding my mistakes. A man can want you, but for the wrong reasons. Did I blot that out, too? I don’t know.  I don’t remember.

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