“The Ways We Remember to Forget” by Christina Murphy

There comes a time in every life when you should treat yourself to something unbelievably special, and this was my time. I can’t say this feeling was directly related to my break up with Sean, but it was close. We had that kind of relationship where a breakup is as natural and as predictable as the tides coming in and going out, so I can’t say I was surprised when it happened. I expected more disruption or sadness—after all, we had been together for six years—but it felt more like dropping a feather into the Grand Canyon. You watch it go down very slowly, no sound, and after awhile you lose sight of it along with any interest in where it will land.

So Saturday Sean comes by to pack up his things. I choose not to be there and to have the weekend to myself. I had been thinking about what I wanted to do, and I wasn’t sure until I saw an ad for a weekend getaway at a super-expensive hotel in Boston. All the luxuries, a beautiful view of the cityscape, a five-star restaurant, and phenomenal in-suite dining. “Heavenly” was the tagline for the ad, and what made the stay so divine was a huge bed designed for perfect sleep. It was a Parnian Furniture bed designed as a “work of art” made from ebony, sapele, and maple, and costing $250,000. The mattress was a “Vividus” or “Full of Life” with natural elements sewn into each layer to make you feel like you were “sleeping on a cloud.”

“It’s what dreams are made of” said the ad, and that was what I liked the most. After six years with Sean that had started out well but gone sour rather quickly before tapering off into indifference, I could use a good dream or two, and I definitely had never slept on a cloud.

So I am at work doing my lawyerly preparations for a case I know will be a slam dunk when my mind keeps wandering back to this ad. I look at the bed, the huge suite, and the statement in large gold letters: “Indulge yourself!” There were only four rooms with Parnian beds, so if I wanted to “experience luxury” I had to hurry and make my reservations now “for that special getaway.” It would cost me over $8,000 for two nights, but what the hell—I can afford it. So I call the hotel, make my arrangements, take the train in, and here I am looking at this gorgeous bed, which has a huge, disk-like maple headboard that seems to be looking at me and through me to the millions of lights forming a tapestry in the heart of the city. I have never seen a bed this beautiful or any piece of furniture this striking. I am breath taken and wonder if I can even sit on it let alone turn down the sheets and sleep in it. It seems too perfect to change in any way, and I am filled with a sense of awe. Then I realize that I have not even experienced the full height of the sensual pleasure the bed offers, so I do sit down on the edge and almost gasp at how soft the bed is as it adjusts to my weight and contours. “Definitely like a cloud,” I say to myself, and then a lie down, spread out fully, and luxuriate in a feeling very close to floating in a soft and tender embrace. I have nothing to compare this to. It’s a wonderland of new experiences, and I am enchanted.

Then I know what will make things even better. I take a small bottle of Vodka from the mini-bar, fill a glass with the chipped ice that has been provided to me in a cut glass ice bucket, and sip slowly. The cold bitterness of the Vodka is exhilarating, and I appreciate the pleasure that comes from being alone and totally immersed in what makes me happy. I have another Vodka and feel a tension moving away from me that I was not aware of. Perhaps my work, perhaps Sean, perhaps a sense of wondering what I had been doing with my life for the past six years—all of it ebbing away.

I kick off my shoes and sit down on the bed, wondering what I will do for the night. I could go out for a magnificent meal. I realize that I am hungry, but somehow the going out is not appealing. I want to stay in this room and enjoy this quiet solitude. I figure I will do room service eventually, but not now because even the appearance of the server entering the room seems disruptive to me. So I rummage through the mini-bar and find a jar of smoked almonds, a circle of Camembert cheese, a tin of Beluga caviar, and a selection of crackers standing tall in a box like soldiers lined up for a parade. I find a lovely China plate with a fleur-de-lis design and a silver cheese knife. “What more could I want?” I say to myself as I spot a large bunch of deep purple grapes. “Excellent,” I say as I take my treasures to the table and sit looking out at the city lights.

There was a time when I would have thought an evening like this would be too poignant to have alone. I would have wanted Sean or whoever was my lover to be with me and help fend off the loneliness of having no one to share such moments with. There used to be an ache for companionship and connection, but now I realize that loneliness can come in twos just as easily and perhaps being alone is not as unsettling as I once thought.

“Here’s to you, old gal,” I say, toasting myself with another Vodka and chewing on a smoked almond. “Maybe I should be getting to know you better. God knows I spent enough time trying to get to know Sean.”

Ah yes, Sean. His image comes back into my mind, and I wonder what he is doing. Perhaps he has finished packing up his belongings and has shut the door to the apartment as his final gesture of parting. I wonder how that must feel for him—if he is sad or wistful or perhaps just relieved. Who can really know what goes on inside of someone else? I think to myself. Hell, who can know what goes on inside of yourself? If you did, would you make such dumb choices as the lovers you leave behind—or who leave you?

“Oh hell, I can’t think about that,” I say to myself as I reach for the In-Suite Dining menu. I look at the pages and pages of elegant meals and decide on prime rib, a baked potato, and a Caesar’s salad. And a bottle of wine, too—a nice Bordeaux. And definitely a pot of coffee and a crème brûlée for desert.

I decide I will phone in my order in a little while, but first I want to lie on my magnificent bed again. Gently, I turn down the covers to find creamy, chocolate-colored sheets that go beautifully with the woods of the headboard and frame. I love it—white sheets would have been so pedestrian. I prop up the pillow and lean against it as I snuggle in, grab the remote, and turn on the television. It’s a beautiful HD picture, and the colors captivate me. I watch with interest for a few moments until I realize this is a movie I saw with Sean when we were first falling in love. I am sad for a moment, deeply wistful, wishing the best of times had stayed with us and the horrible times had never happened. I feel my throat tighten up and I know I would cry if I let myself, but I won’t. There is tonight and there is tomorrow, and I will find my satisfaction now, not wallow in sadness remembering the past. Let tonight begin, I am thinking as I pick up the phone and order my dinner. “The hell with movies, and the hell with Sean,” I say as I change the channel and snuggle deeper into the comforts of my lovely bed. Soon my perfect meal will arrive, and I will enjoy each bite. And at some point, sleep will overcome me, and I will experience the most wonderful dreams. “Vividus”—full of life!—forgetting everything sorrowful, everything past, and imagining only the promise of what lies ahead.

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Christina Murphy lives and writes in a 100 year-old Arts and Crafts style house along the Ohio River. She continues to be amazed at how the Arts and Crafts movement—like the painter Piet Mondrian– found such artistic integrity (and solace) in straight lines and simple (yet complex) forms. Her writing appears in a number of journals and anthologies, including, most recently, ABJECTIVE, A cappella Zoo, PANK, Word Riot, Boston Literary Magazine, Fiction Collective, and LITnIMAGE. Her work has received Special Mention for a Pushcart Prize and the 2011 Andre Dubus Award for Short Fiction from Words and Images.