Memory

She doesn't remember breaking it off with me over the phone. That's the kind of thing you discover when you have dinner with an ex. She also doesn't remember the first time she kissed me (outside her rez in the drizzle and the dark), or what we did or did not do in bed (her friend had her quite convinced of certain events having transpired that never did). She doesn't remember how she broke it off with me, although we both smile when I ask her if she remembers why.

When you haven't seen someone in a long time, and you're enjoying yourself, conversations tend to jump around. There's just so much to talk about. Our sexuality. Who she's seeing at the moment. My recent dating history. Her school situation. The fact that I'm still in Montreal instead of gone already.

When it's time to leave, me to return home, she to return wherever it is she lives now, she asks me for some cantlets I wrote about her when we were dating. She quotes them to jog my memory. One about her lips, another about my hand idly skimming down her back. She wants me to send them to her.