Where Our Hands, Like Memories, Rest in the Night
One night, in the southern hemisphere of this clock-like world, four figures sat in the open air of a restaurant in a country fraught with change. Some call such countries dangerous, but these four—an X, a Y, a she, a he—sat together in no fear long into the night. The other customers had disappeared and the tables had been cleared and the four of them continued to convene in the open dark, talking, smoking, solving and creating problems, minute by minute, drink by drink. These four had seen things others had not seen, but that is not unusual. Rather, that is what it means to be human.
Samuel Johnson said, The true art of memory is the art of attention, which makes it sound as if the human mind is in charge. Yet André Maurois said, Memory is a great artist. For every man for every woman it makes the recollection of his or her life a work of art and an unfaithful record.
But who can say who is right?
* * * What Does and Does Not Happen
Y: All right, it was late, and I was three sheets to the wind, and I was exhausted but elated to be back in a city, far from the tents we called hospitals where people faced atrocities that no human should be subject to. I remember pushing my glasses up on my nose as I sat watching X move close and then closer to her. She was facing him, leaning slightly toward him. And I knew X. Had seen ...
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