Pyromania
III.
I wouldn't set fire to those boxes if I were you.
You see, memories are in those little objects. The ones you want to forget now but would want to remember later. Because those objects might be the best thing that ever happened to you.
I should've shoved a tape recorder in his mouth everytime he spoke. The spit and the grinding of his teeth, the rolling of his tongue, the blood on his gums, the lettuce stuck in between his molars -- they should've made up that tape. If I had done that, I could loop that tape till it resembles infinity. Remember every single thing he said, down to the last minute detail.
I should've learnt steno. Rapid fire transcription of all the things he said. Steno that records interpretations of what he probably meant, of what I wanted him to mean. Steno that reveals both sides of our stories.
But the things that heard our plainest chatter and the rest of our clutter have been reduced to smog and ashes. I inhaled the smoke and coughed it off, but I didn't want to. Only my system rejected it. Much like the last of his memory that I try to gather. I force them back in, but eventually I have to cough them out.
Now all I know is that we are each other's most embarrassing moment.