A Night to Remember: The things you keep

A laugh slipped out as she said, “You have to be joking right?”

“Not at all, that’s exactly how it happened.”

It was that smile. Something about how it lit up in a crowd like fireflies dancing around her, drawn to something they couldn’t name. But why her?

Why not the barmaid just a few metres away? Attention clung to her like a flock to its shepherd.

No, the woman in front of me had something the barmadi didn’t.

Maybe it was the warmth of her smile, or the electric hum of her presence.

I just couldn’t quite put my finger on it yet.

Still smiling, she leaned over and took a sip of her drink. A cosmobellini with extra foam, in a hurricane glass. Just the way she liked it.

“So your idea of fun is lighting up a soup can on the weekends… just because it explodes?” she said, amused. “You know if it weren’t for that absurdity, I wouldn’t be sitting here.”

We laughed and just sat there, staring at each other.

The music, the lights, the buzzing of voices around us.

All of it slipped away.

For a moment, it felt like we were alone in a crowded sea.

Quiet.

Close.

“Got any other exotic hobbies I should know of cowboy?”

I snapped out of my trance, scrambling for a response that wouldn’t make me sound like a complete idiot.

“Nope, beats guitar or yoga. I’ll tell ya that.”

She scoffed, half-offended. Didn’t mean to step on any toes. Just speaking plainly, if it was her yoga or my flying soup can. I’d choose the can every time. Good thing I didn’t tell her about what we’d do with the tire next week. She’d absolutely freak out.

“Whatd’ya mean? You play guitar.”

Her smile faltered.

Eyes widened.

Laughter gone in a blink.

“You’re in a band right?”

Something in her shifted. Confusion, distress, tears brimming. Like she’d just lost grip on an edge, and was about to fall.

It wasn’t the first time.

“Not really.” I said gently. “Don’t sweat it.”

She nodded, lips pressed tight.

Sliding off her seat, she mummered, “Just need the bathroom. Be back in a sec.”

2 years.

Laughing till our stomachs hurt, morning falafel runs, late night movies. Memories to her were like chasing dandelions in a wheat field.

Most were fleeting.

Some close enough to touch.

Others lost to the wind.

Small details, conversations or anniversaries, weren’t the problem. I didn’t mind. But appointments, commitments, people in their entirety.

That’s what drove a wedge between her and everyone else.

For me? Everyday felt like a gamble.

I regret admitting it but, I was waiting.

Waiting for the day she’d wake up beside me.

A stranger in my partner's clothes.

My eyes were fixed on the cosmobellini, the foam slowly sinking into the drink. The condensation pooling on the glass and dripping onto the table.

“Heya!”

Her voice cut through the haze. It pulled me back from my spiral of thoughts.

“I’m back.” She said, sliding into the seat beside me. Her smile was easy, almost casual, but something was fragile in the way her eyes flickered. “Sorry about that, that time of the month.”

I nodded, the dull thrum of the bar filling the space between us. The low bass of a song pulsed through the floorboards, matching my heartbeat. The chatter around us like a distant tide; ebbing and flowing.

The warm glow of fairy lights tangled above the bar cast soft shadows across her face, highlighting a soft tremble of her lips.

“No worries.” I said, voice a bit rougher than I meant. “Wanna get out of here? It's getting a bit boring.”

She glanced around, the weight of the night suddenly seeming to press down on her. The flicker in her eyes deepened. She nodded and started gathering her things.

“What about your drink?” I said, nodding to the flat cosmobellini.

She looked down, then back at me, eyes narrowing as if trying to find the words inside the fog. “Oh… I don’t like those anyways.” She said with a laugh that barely reached her eyes, “I’ll leave it for the bartender to handle.”

The foam, now a thin veil melting into the ruby-red liquid, caught a stray gleam of light as if reluctant to disappear.

I guess, maybe she didn’t like them.

The night was cool, and crisp. The city pulsed with a rhythm slower than in the bar.

Quieter.

Softer.

The sound of distant traffic hummed faintly coupled with a lone siren that pierced the night somewhere far off.

I tugged my jacket tighter around me and glanced sideways. Her profile bathed in the amber glow of a streetlamp, her shadow curling gently along her cheekbone. There was a stillness to her.

Like a photograph caught mid-motion, unsure whether to move forward or remain timeless.

“Remember Dan?”

Her eyes flickered.

An internal switch searching for something familiar.

“Danny Danny Danny…” I muttered, my voice cracking slightly. “He had a way of dragging chaos into the most peaceful nights.”

She chuckled.

“You know he moved to Budapest last year?”

Her chuckled evolved into a soft laughter, rich and echoing across the empty street. She tilted her head down, shoulder shaking slightly as if caught in memory.

“Budapest won’t know what hit them.” She said, looking up again with a smirk that could’ve split the night in two.

Then came the silence.

Not heavy. Just… suspended. Both of us were still in the space between what had just passed and what was to come next.

What to say, what to do

How to hold this night together without letting it slip through our fingers.

She looked at me, her eyes clear.

“You’re not in a band. And today’s our 2nd year anniversary.”

I nodded, not sure of what to say.

“It takes me a while,” She said softly, “but I remember. I’d never forget you.”

And somehow,

Despite everything.

You do remember.

Even if it slips sometimes, even if it comes back in pieces.

You do.

You always do.

And for the longest time now,

It feels like you always have.