Me:
Was I saving myself for you?
Erika:
Subconsciously, you were.
Me:
And you? You were going to marry someone else.
Erika:
Because I didn’t think you liked me romantically. Turns out I was wrong. We confessed how much we loved each other about a week after I called off the wedding. We didn’t sleep together until after we told each other we loved each other. It was very romantic and special. I remember it like it was yesterday.
Me:
I don’t remember.
Erika:
I wish you did.
Me:
Me too.
Having a heart-to-heart with someone I don’t know seems weird, but also, in a way, feels oddly familiar. I have a question that’s been bothering me.
Me:
My yacht is called Keira. Not Erika. Who’s Keira? Is that your middle name?
Erika:
It’s an anagram of my name.
Me:
Why did I do that?
Erika:
To hide your love for me.
Fuck me. I’m a hopeless romantic. I’m also crazy. Crazy in love with her, it would seem. I’m powerless against my mind—a powerful opponent with its own agenda. A war of emotions, like a painful knot, tightens as I struggle with guilt for not remembering Erika and sadness for a love I don’t remember.
Me:
I’m going to make a stab at a guess and say we don’t live together because this all happened so fast.
Erika:
Correct. You did ask me to move in with you the night you made love to me in front of the fire in your living room.
Me:
Did you say yes?
