Persistence of Memory

Persistence of Memory
 
    A college girl talks candidly to her girlfriend on her cell phone.  
     “You know Sarah is so weird. She goes around showing off her thighs in the middle of winter. What gives with her?”  
    “Yeah, but why does she have to flaunt herself? I mean I look good in hot pants and like to let the world see it. But really she could catch a cold. She is so desperate to hook a man.”  
     “Girl, I told Dan that if he wants sex, he’ll have to pay for it and I am not for sale. Besides I am looking for an older man. Young guys in those bootcut jeans are advertising. I prefer a relaxed fit so both of us can relax. Hey, my bus is pulling up. We really need to get together for some girl time.”
     The college girl says to me, “Your dour face tells me you’ve been waiting for the bus for a while.”  
     I reply, “Chalk it up to me being an old man. The years have piled up and alas I have become impatient. Pardon me for eavesdropping but there  
is no bus here.”
     She replies, “I’d guess you buy your clothes at the big and tall store.”
     “Used to but was told I am undersize for their apparel.”
     “I’d guess you to be a 46 waist size.”
     I reply, “44 actually. Surely I am too big for a girl as slim as you.”
     She says, “God doesn’t mess with perfect. Once he has it right he lets it be.”
     I reply, “But Adam and Eve are depicted in art as well built.”
     She says, “But living in the garden like they did I imagine they had not much to do but eat. So the artists are projecting their own desires on the first couple.”
     “Yes, they were unspoiled by fashion magazines and likely found each other well proportioned even with love handles.”
     “Now we’re on the same page.”
     “But don’t you think our relationship could get top-heavy?”  
    “I was a blue ribbon bareback equestrian.”
     “What kind of riding do you have in mind?”
     “Hey, I have an extra ten-speed. What do you say we skip the bus and pedal to the coffee shop?”
     “I haven’t ridden a bike since my wife passed.  
But yes, I would love to feel the wind in my hair from a good ride once more.”  
    She answers, “Well my hair is longer than yours and will flutter but I’m thrilled to be riding with you again.”
     “Again? Can’t recall having taken to the bike path with you but am sure you meant someone else because life hasn’t afforded me bicycling company since my beloved left the earth twenty years ago. Your inference of our past association must have been a non sequitur.”
     She says, “You always used big words. You are so funny. Did your wife have black hair like me? I bet you are a pushover for brunettes.”
     We bicycle down student row by night where the bar scene gets in gear. Even the police demure the path we cruise. The night is pitch as the velvet hair of my bicycle girl in our double star whose tresses are ribbons for a Halloween party girl but with raspberry lips instead of charcoal and nude fingernails.    
     We pedal like madhouse escapees on a flight to where crazy becomes Stan & Stella impressionists in a watering hole known as The Bayou where the only catfish that swim are beer bearers in the lush night.
     But we haven’t ridden seven miles for hops and barley. Our tastes are for the Costa Rican bean brew. She says, “Do you trust me enough to believe that I am your wife come back to life?”
     “I am here with you a total stranger having ridden bicycles through a deserted student ghetto in the night.”
     “No! We are not strangers.”
     “Tell me where we got married.”
     “We got hitched in the backyard of our house you silly goose. How could I forget? Now I’ve returned to wear that poodle skirt you loved while simultaneously being your nutritionist with my full rack of homeopathic remedies. You’ll live to be a hundred which is good for me because I don’t fancy being a widow anytime soon.”
       I reply, “Yes, I remember the shades of green in our backyard that darkened with dusk.”
     She says, “The deep forest colors lingered in  
twilight with trembling leaves in night breeze that hung onto falling light.”
     “You were my fairy queen whose curved back hovered over a lush orange tree. I gazed quietly as evening sounds gathered. You held the hose lovingly and sprinkled holy water on its thirsty roots.”
     She says, “The earthen circle I made girdled the garden where weeds sprouted like errant children. My collard greens rose in noble profusion with their succulent leaves, my labor of love.”
      I reply, “I remember our secret language.”
     She asks, “Do you remember my favorite coffee shop beverage?”
     “Mocha my dear.”
     “With what?”
     “Mint. But please tell me what my caffeinated drink of choice is.”
      “You don’t drink caffeine. Always decafe with a third skim milk, no sugar.”
      “I don’t need any more convincing. We are already married but marriage licenses don’t extend to the next life. Let’s renew our vows.”
     She replies, “Let’s do my honeydew man.”