7:15, 7:32

Do you remember? We used to live in black and white, inside crisp shadows and under GE light bulbs. We were excellently photographable: me in my clean strappy T-shirt and creased linen trousers, you in your Ivory Soap slip and brassiere. We were neat and sharp, locked in a post-sepia, post-coital daydream.

I kept my Brycreem beside the soap dish, and every morning shaved the same whiskered face, and made the same geometric adjustments to my hair. First cup of coffee, 7:15 a.m.; second cup, 7:32. Eventually, I noticed the pattern and tried to alter it. My hair did not grow, my morning beard did not change.

And you: you were always curled in the same comma shape on the bed when I woke you, and you exhaled the same breath, a sour gust of cocktails and Lifesaver Wint O Greens. We were black and white and chilled martinis.

I know we exchanged morning kisses and entertained each others bodies, sacredly. I don’t recall any of the other rooms in the house. We were permanent and affixed on simplicity. I don’t know what changed, sweetheart. Was it me?

Now we are creased photographs in someone else’s nostalgia collection. When our page is turned – we’re on page 715 or 732, I think – we are clumsily framed against a dark fake-velvet backdrop, bordered by cracked Scotch tape.

But… oh, honey, do you remember? I don’t think the memory belongs to us anymore.

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10 Replies to “7:15, 7:32”

  1. Wow. Wow. Steven. So evocative. I’m going through my parents’ old photo albums now and browse those sepia faces of ancestors whom I don’t know anymore… I wonder about their lives, their loves, their struggles. And then I turn the page, knowing someday that will be me.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Due to unfortunate circumstances, I don’t have any old photo albums, or any family photos at all. I guess that’s one of the reasons why a lot of my work is sentimental… my way of recording and remembering. I’m so glad you liked this one, D. 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

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