Our First Love Read Free Page B

tragedies that were seemingly connected like Siamese twins to everyone’s life. It’s no secret to my subscribers that the memories I wrote about were made up. I was upfront about my memory loss and admitted that I didn’t remember anything about my life prior to waking up from a coma eleven years ago, so they knew that I juxtaposed myself into these tales of an unforgettable childhood and the good ol’ days. Judging from the comments to the blog, it has touched a lot of people out there. I took the wild guess that they were touched since, although I probably never lived any of the memories that I wrote about, deep inside my heart, I felt like I had.
    I’m sure Nigel read the blog, but he’d never mentioned anything about it.
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    Another job wasn’t the only thing Nigel didn’t show an interest in. He’d never been much of a talker, which wasn’t a problem since I talked enough for both of us. But, except when he’s going on about the weather, Nigel hadn’t said much at all. I’d practicallytried to reach inside him and pull out conversations on several occasions. I had to be careful, though. If I pulled too hard or too often, he’d retreat to his bedroom and leave me out here talking to myself.
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    This was me talking to myself. I didn’t have anyone else to talk to because Nigel didn’t bother to get out of bed today. He’d been shut up in his bedroom all day. I was not stressing about it though. I talked to myself all the time, mostly to say things that I couldn’t say to Nigel; words that I had to speak out loud, if only in my mind, since thoughts weren’t real until they are verbalized or lived.
    I imagined how it must feel to run. I couldn’t remember ever running, but as I gazed out the window at people jogging around Myers Park, the freedom of unbridled motion resurrected my soul. I started running. My heart raced as I accelerated and challenged the wind, overtaking time. I was running. Running. Running until I slammed head-on into these walls. My trepidation and these unyielding walls were formidable hurdles.
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    We hadn’t been to the grocery store since two weeks before Barney died. So tonight’s dinner, like last night’s and the night before that, was whatever I could scrape together. There were six cans of minestrone soup, two cans of green peas, and a can of corned beef in the cabinet. Two ice trays had the freezer to themselves. A pitcher of water and a bowl of minestrone soup Nigel had for lunch fought for space in the refrigerator. The rice container was half full. And we’d given out of sugar three days ago.
    â€œHow does corned beef and rice sound?” I asked Nigel.
    Instead of responding, Nigel sat there contemplating whetherhe wanted corned beef and rice or something else. Why? It wasn’t like he was gonna get off his sorry ass and go get anything else.
    â€œNigel, we have six cans of minestrone soup, a can of corned beef, two cans of green peas, and a cup of rice,” I informed him as I walked into the living room. “The menu’s either corned beef and rice or more minestrone soup.”
    â€œCorned beef and rice,” Nigel suggested, then stood up and turned off the ceiling fan. He sat back down, picked up the TV remote, and changed the channel.
    â€œThank God,” I said. “I was starting to see Locals On The 8s in my sleep.”
    As I walked back to the kitchen Nigel announced, “We’ll go to the store tomorrow.”
    â€œOkay,” I acknowledged with a guilty smile. “I’ll make out a shopping list tonight.”
    Nigel hated minestrone soup. I was not that crazy about it either, but I kept it in stock for times like this.
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    It was almost 3 a.m. and I was in bed, pretending to sleep. I know it’s kind of crazy to pretend to sleep when you’re the only person in the room, but my reason was a good one, which exempted me from the crazy