Silver James

Time just keeps slip-slip-slipping away. Here it is Wednesday again. Today’s #1lineWed theme of **MEMORY/REMEMBER**is rather apropos given yesterday’s anniversary. I have a few memories and some remembers, though most in published works or in snippets I seem to remember that I’ve already shared. I also haven’t really written this week and I had Sinjen on my mind so I sat down at the computer last night and came up with this. This is a rough first draft, mostly unedited so ignore the typos. Yes, it will be in the October Penumbra book, tentatively titled LEATHER AND LACE, though I have no official word count started yet. I should update the site. I’ll get right on that. Soon. Ish. In the meantime…

Memories

Sinjen stared into the rich, citrine-colored liquid contained within the expensive Waterford crystal glass. He’d died long before Irish whiskey was first distilled but the scent of it, and the taste of it on his tongue reminded him of other times. Other places. He lifted the glass, inhaled. He was always a bit surprised at the fruity notes—ripe apple and pear, followed by the hops and clove that would seem more conventional. He swirled the Jameson, watching light reflect through the cut glass to enhance the glints of whiskey gold inside. He sipped—just enough to settle on his tongue. Hops, vanilla and orange juice, quickly followed by cocoa and the bite of oak. He swallowed. And savored the essence of butterscotch and chocolate left on his tongue.

Memory was an odd thing, especially when filtered through centuries rather than decades. Humans marked their existence by remembering the huge, life-altering events. Colleagues of his at the University of Chicago could relate in great detail where they were on that November day when John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas. Or on April 19, 1995—Oklahoma City. And 9-11. The whole world remembered that date.

He took another sip, swirled the smooth whiskey around his mouth, settled a bit deeper into the chair. Dawn was still a few hours away but Chicago could almost rival New York for the skyscrapers and the lights. Almost.

A song drifted up from the street below. He closed his eyes. Sade strutted from the shadows, all long legs eating up the space to the cell where the cops held him. Yes, she had the look, the one Roxette was singing about. Sinjen pushed out of the chair. He didn’t want to remember.

Twenty minutes later, he occupied a table in the corner of a noisy bar. His waitress passed him her phone number as she served his drink. The slip of paper sat on the table top drinking up the ring of moisture left by a previous occupant’s drink. Women checked him out with hungry eyes. Men reacted to his presence in two ways—some wanted to be him. Others wanted to prove their manhood by taking him down. He sipped whiskey, watched, winced as music, voices, and sports on the various TV screens all clashed.

He didn’t want to be here but anyplace was better than his apartment. Too many memories there. Too many memories of her. Sade Marquis. The bane of his existence. The reason he opened his eyes every night. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Withdrawing it, he glanced at the screen . SADE CALLING. He thumbed the IGNORE button and dropped the phone back in his pocket.

Another song started to play. Another memory he didn’t want to remember. Daughtry. He thought that was the name of the artist, though this song was also familiar. Also tied to reminders of what he wanted to forget. His phone beeped. Voice mail. He wanted to ignore it, wanted to delete it without listening.

Holding the phone to his ear, he listened. Her voice sounded husky, like they’d just made love. “What about now?” she said. “Is it too late?”
****
What about y’all? Writers, do you have memories in your WIP that you can remember to share? Readers, care to share a good memory?