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Blackouts

Peter's Marker
Peter drinks. Peter disagrees with a friend. They argue in a drunkenly.
   “You'll only blackout, Peter and not remember what was said.” As though it's one over on poor old Pete. What does it matter to Peter at this point, he’s drunk?
   “Of course I'll remember this, just because you said I wouldn't. All I'll remember is you saying I'm going to blackout and not remember.”

Peter didn't remember.

Simon's Recursion
“Simon, you were laughing uncontrollably. You fell off your chair,” Andrea told Simon as they were both waiting to be served, “you were making a fool of yourself. It was hilarious. Even the security thought you were funny. You're not nasty when you're pissed and out. Just hyper, a bit manic. You went on to tell me that you wouldn't remember a thing in the morning. You said you knew you were in blackout mode. Which was even funnier ... the way you said it. You made me promise you that I'd remind you of everything at a later date, and you said that you wouldn't be sure whether I was lying when I did remind you.”
   “It's always a possibility.”
   “What do you mean, Si?”
   “Well, you could be lying.”

Simon couldn't remember.

... And My Mistress
The guy at the cig stop, out front, told me, that the night precious he'd asked me the same damned question they all do, when I've drank-to-drunk - Why you drink? English spat to a Spanish accent.
   “Because I'm from England,” I'd replied.
    Apparently. Patriotism to this country I know, as alcohol, is not enough.
   I sensed there was more. No-one tells you the answer to a question of which they already have asked and know the answer. There was a further story I sensed it. I didn’t pry because the story was about me. A story I didn’t yet know.
   So we left it, talked about books. As we do.

Until.
   “You hit that guy.”
   I did not remember.

Those secret, uncomfortable histories, I feel, should be kept, held, cherish as such. A tactful mistress never divulging the throws of passion, waiting silently, patiently side-lined, respectful; knowing words of reality would shrivel libido, destroy what we have together, any subtle slip dangerous.
   And in the arms of that fabled beauty I find myself once more this evening - writing for her and fighting for silence.

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