a conversation

The place is empty when I arrive--there's a bitter wind out there and the streets are icy and why would anyone be out in this? But she's waiting at a table, drinking a mug of something hot, and she gives me the ghost of a smile when she sees me, kicks out the chair opposite her and raises her mug in greeting. "Can I get you anything?"

"Whatever you're having," I tell her.

She gives me a look that I can't read--a quirk of her lips, a sparkle in her eye. "Sure." She looks comfortable, I realize. Less gaunt than when I'd known her, softer lines and edges, and she stands and moves with a confidence that wasn't there before, busies herself making something that I'm not convinced is the same thing she's drinking. She sets the mug in front of me and sits down again. Her face is different, too. Tired, but content. She is watching me with an expression I'm not sure I ever could have read, but ten years ago I would have been certain I could. I must look just as strange to her, now. So much more time on the road, so much less time studying in libraries, trying to understand the world through old histories.

She curls her fingers around her mug, holds it up to her face, and looks down into it. Watching the patterns in the steam, perhaps. There's a nick on her index finger, I notice, small and bright like a cut that's just healing. "Your hand," I say, an unfinished thought, before anything else makes sense. I'm thinking of the scars of hers I used to know, wondering how they have changed in the years.

She shrugs. "Not every scar needs a story." Then something like a smile. "Not that that will stop me remembering."

I tilt my head.

"I carry it all with me. I can't not." She runs her thumb along the fresh cut, wincing slightly at the pressure. "Every scar. Everyone I've loved, everyone who's loved me. Everyone I've hurt, or who hurt me." Her eyes flicker up to meet mine, and I feel myself blush as I look away. "Even you," she says. I don't dare to ask which one I am. "It's easier to turn the happy memories into stories. Do you ever notice that? Does that happen to you? You tell the stories so many times it's the stories you remember. The cadence of telling it, the ways people react, the inflections. And you keep telling it because it's the closest thing you have to a memory."

I can't read her face but she is searching mine, now. I say nothing.

"But the ones that hurt, the ones you can't bring yourself to tell, those stay sharp. I wonder, sometimes, if I could turn those into stories, too. If all the times I hurt you could become nothing more than words and moments to pause for effect. Instead of feeling it fresh every time I think of you."

Ten years ago I think I would have risen to that bait. Instead I say, "You know I came here for a story. Maybe that will help?"

"Perhaps." She sets her mug down and lets her hand brush against mine. "Happier memories will help, too. Before I have time to turn them into stories."

And for a moment I allow myself to wonder how many of her memories of me have become stories. I let myself meet her eye and give her a smile. "I would be happy to help," I tell her.