Obliviate

CHAPTER TWO

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During my time at the house made of shells, I learned to love the sea. Its tumultuousness and unpredictability reminded me of a life worth living, something that, having no memory of my own life, seemed to escape me. The waves went on adventures I was envious of everyday, though I couldn't ignore the fact of their loneliness when I was not standing on the shore, when the sun is locked behind a cloud of grey, when I'd peer across the sand through the window at the top of the stairs. I never noticed it before how sad they look, rocking back and forth, crashing against one another, thrashing in a fit of rage. It felt like a private moment; an intimate scene that was not meant for my eyes to see. I felt like an intruder watching the waves as they rolled back in longing and stretched forward in loneliness, retracting from the world and crashing again like a plane fallen from the sky— the angst of a teenager, broken and bruised and sporting a mighty scar manifested in the surf, in the torrent, in the spasm. It was like the waves were reaching for a memory, a feeling, that they simply could not recover.

When I watch from the window, they are alone, begging for company. But in this moment, I was watching from the sand, and I was barefoot again, and the air around me was cold, but the waves were enjoying their adventure.  I was wrapped in a sweater that he had given me— that the man had given me.

His sweater was nice, though a little scratchy. It was warm too, and it encompassed enough of my body to keep my knees against my chest and maintain the warmth of the wool. 

I was gracious he had given it to me in exchange for my damp dress, but it was rather awkward that he'd pulled it right from his body to hand it over to me. I suppose we were both rather awkward in that instance.

You see, it happened as I watched him pour tea, his back muscles flexing through his shirt while he was turned away from me, and I shivered. It was one shiver, and it wasn't even that loud of a shiver. But he'd heard it regardless.

"You're cold?" he asked, turning concerned. 

He'd asked a lot of questions from the time we first met. In fact, that was how most of our conversations went. 

This, I suppose, is natural of course, seeing as we'd only just met and on the strangest of circumstances at that. What else could we even talk about at that point? It's not like we could share our common interests when we could barely pass the formalities. We asked questions that we would actually be able to answer. 

Once we learned that I could not produce any recollection of my life, we silently agreed to avoid asking any questions that would only result in the waste of our breath. 

I looked up at him and nodded. 

"Yes." 

I was quite cold actually. Despite the large skylit windows peering down on us, normally used to let the sun in and warm the room naturally, the kitchen was very chilly and shallow. The sun had disappeared behind a cloud and any warmth that lingered in the room was quickly absorbed by our rigid bodies, though it was very much so, not enough.

"Are your clothes wet?" he asked, handing me the cup of tea. 

He leaned forward to give it to me, fingers gently wrapped around the handle, and looked directly into me. His eyes, I learned, were very animated—despite their darkness—and the white edges surrounding his chocolate gaze widened as he studied me.