The Mirage of Memory
When it comes to the recollection of events, somewhere just shy of the bounds of truth, lies the mirage of memory.
How would he be remembered? This was her thought as the first cool sips of a rich Merlot hit her central nervous system, dulling the edges around the events of the evening. For some reason, the current scene in her kitchen reminded her of an impromptu trip they’d taken some years ago to the Maldives.
His apology, that time, took the shape of no expenses spared. A private, chartered flight from a partner connection at work, champagne served at every meal by a Michelin starred personal chef, and a secluded bungalow suspended upon stilts atop some of what she believed to be the most beautiful azure waters she’d ever seen.
But all of this historical reverie was merely a distraction, something to take her mind off of the bruises she’d have to cover in the morning, whilst also allowing her to gather her wits about what was to come next.
And then she noticed it.
The shirt of the man who lay dying, or may be already dead, on her otherwise spotless white kitchen floor. The color of the rather flamboyant linen shirt her husband had chosen to pair with khaki linen shorts for their date night, bore a striking resemblance to those captivating waters from so many years ago. The added aesthetic of it quickly changing from brilliant teal to the same deep crimson of the liquid she took a languishing sip of again before swallowing was too, one of the most beautiful things she’d ever seen.
Her apology for this, she decided, would never be offered.
