Sometimes, Intimacy

Sometimes, they called it Name Your Memory. Sometimes, Intimacy. It was a game they concocted together. A game they were proud of.

They were feeling a little tired, the afternoon they invented it. They were surprised at how exhausted they felt, considering that they have just known each other for four months or so. Hence, the need for a game, a ruse, a new distraction.

The rules of the game were deceptively simple. One of them would drop a name of a person or a place casually during insignificant parts of the day. Sometimes, one of them would play a song. Because they weren't allowed to ask questions, the other person would have to guess.

After the clues have been laid down, the name-dropper waits. He (or she) would try to sense if the other person guessed who or what the memory was and what it meant to him or her. They believed that it would help them keep track of each other. It would help them eradicate the stilting commotion that secrets usually bring.

Once the other person guesses what that memory was, s/he would write it down on a journal that they shared. This is where the game becomes more elusive. This is the part where skill comes in. The guessee should write down a code that the other person has to break in order to know if s/he guessed the memory correctly or not. But because they were new lovers and new lovers are prone to invent their own kingdoms and languages , they managed the whole affair pretty well.

So they tiptoed around each other, dropping names between silly conversations, singing songs while walking home, mouthing inconsequential phrases as they kissed each other through glass windows. They were never bored but they were always restless, untangling their furled histories.

They told each other, there was never intimacy before we came and conquered the world. For seconds, they knew happiness.They never wanted the game to stop.

But one day, while they were sitting on the porch, the woman uttered a name that the man was unfamiliar with. He let the name stand there between them for a while, like an unwanted couch. Then he forgot it when she told him about how her day went.

Later that evening, she played a Spanish song. Furious violin strains whirled around him. He still could not guess what the memory was.

When they cuddled in their small bed, she spoke that name in her sleep. She spoke the name backwards for three times. He was so frightened by this change in her that he shoved her awake. When she opened her eyes, she asked him what was wrong.

This went on for two months. By now, the man was bent on finding out what the memory was. He, who used to be superfluously curious, now looked through bits of paper that she left in her bags. He tried to decode her sentences and tore them to pieces when he was alone. He looked through her purse, through her magazines.

Their journal, which used to be filled with languaged silk and words of exclusive endearment was now dusty and untouched.

She was fraught with insipid changes. To a stranger, her mood swings would mean nothing. But because he believed that he knew her, he became bothered by her sudden wishes, by her whining.

He does not understand this new game- her leaving him out.

Then one orange afternoon, she played the Spanish song again. She sat on a wooden chair that they bought together a year ago. She just sat and looked at him. Her eyes were fixed stones.

Then he remembers, The afternoon that we invented the game was as orange as this one.

Suddenly, he is struck by an epiphany. Visions of endless afternoons stretch infront of him like lazy cats. He remembers a man's voice. A dial tone. A strange green notebook that he has never seen before, locked in her desk drawer.

He whispers, It is not a memory. It is not a memory. It is not a memory.

It is only then that she looks away.