What Do You Remember About Me?
Do you remember those lace panties you liked?
They were black, thick lace that gently held both hips, and high-waisted enough to hit my navel ring so the gem peeked in and out as I moved. I wore a lot of black because you said you liked it. Boys always like black lingerie.
Do you remember them? Of course you do. You remember them as I lay on my stomach on your bed, still warm and drowsy, watching you get dressed in the morning. You remember them hidden up my skirts and the breezy slipdresses I was into that year. You remember them on your floor, after you’d pulled them off me slowly.
There’s a certain smell in the air on a spring morning, still a little chilly, that always reminds me of waking up in your bed. Sometimes we’d sleep with the windows cracked open, despite the finicky nature of a Minnesota spring and its unpredictable weather. The air smells clean and bright, like it’s thinking of snow and deciding against it. It’s not the warm, sticky heat of a July morning or the dead chill of January. It’s the smell of spring, and it will always make me think of you.
Do you remember that bed?
Your old low white bed under the window with its white sheets and wool blankets, the one where you first laid me down to fuck me and I could feel how nervous you were under your skin – you were shaking with the intensity of it. The bed where I’d wake up early and untangle myself from your arms for a moment, only to have you pull me back. I’d hold on to the windowsills as I fucked you and feel that morning air in my hair.
Do you remember my hair?
It was longer then, and whiter, and as we kissed it’d fall around our faces. It was splayed out across your pillows, and once you’d left you told me that sometimes you still imagined me and my mess of blonde hair in the bed beside you. You did it when you felt lonely, when you missed me. I liked being missed, though I wanted you back so badly it sometimes made me feel weak. What I never told you is that I did the same thing.
I remember your hands.
I remember your finely-shaped hands on my skin at night, making sure to touch each and every spot on my body. I remember your hands on a steering wheel, shifting gears, and I remember them entwined with mine. I remember your mouth and your eyes and the way you kissed me, but mostly I remember your hands.
Sometimes I remember these things when another man is inside me, his mouth too heavy, his hands pulling too hard. I’ll remember them in the middle of an ordinary day, when nothing I’m doing should drift me back to you, but it still does. I guess you have to remember things to keep from forgetting them, and even though I tried to forget, it’s crystal clear that I still want to remember. 