Memories | Short Story

She closed the door of her studio and turned the lights on, smiling with electric eyes as she saw her face for tonight in the mirror. There was something special about that face: the small nose like a little girls’, the large jade eyes, the thin lips curled in a permanent, playful smirk. It made her feel lighter, more cheerful, less tense around the shoulders. “I don’t need to take it off right now,” she muttered, slipping out of her shoes, rejoicing in the feeling of the carpet under her bare feet.

Until then, taking off her face was the first step in her nightly routine. She'd step into the bathroom and wash her face to remove it, cleansing the memories and feelings with it, leaving her suspended in a limbo without colors and smells, with only a few memories in her mind like shadows behind the fog.

Sitting alone in the silence of her mind, clean and pure as the freshly washed bedsheets drying on her balcony, was comfortable. It took the edge off the job and reminded her of her mission: to find faces for her brothers and sisters, as they did for her.

That night she was Marina: 25 years old, medium height, average weight, straight, brown hair down to her shoulders; but a spark within the face survived its owner's death. She could feel it radiating warmth and joy inside her mind, making her uncomfortable in her newfound happiness.

That night, however, was different in other ways, too. That night she met a man, a man with a sweet smile, a quiet disposition and warm blue eyes that looked at her with reserved attention while she talked, holding her glass, her keys almost forgotten on the counter at the bar.

“Have you got a pen?” He raised his voice a little, leaning slightly toward her to make himself heard over the music and the chatter.

She nodded, handing him a blue pen she found inside her bag, under the little box where she kept the face she took earlier that day. Marina couldn’t help but notice his hands, the long fingers holding the pen bleeding blue blood on the napkin. The sudden noise inside her head with flashing images of those fingers leaving heat marks on her skin and the ache in her heart, like an insatiable hunger, made her frown.

“Thank you,” he said, returning the pen to her with a smile. But his eyes lingered over her face for a second, trying to make up the shapes of her over the tacky blue and yellow lights. “Have we met before? You look familiar.”

Marina froze for a moment, searching in the face’s memories for a glimpse of this man. “I don’t think we’ve met, no,” she said, carefully.

He smiled again, offering his hand. “Steven. And you are?”

“Marina.” She was Marina, after all, but only for that night, for as long as she was allowed to wear that face with the tiny nose and the green eyes and the playful smirk. The face she found when she met his eyes was long, bearded, crowned with dark curls she later found out were auburn, and she wondered what it’d be like to wear it, what memories came with it, how many tears it had shed, how many newborn wrinkles it had. But men’s faces didn’t become her. She had tried once or twice before.

“Have you tried the sangria here? I'm gasping for decent sangria but was thinking about trying a place across the street.”

“This place has the best sangria in town, if you ask me.”

“Really?” He beamed. “Well, I’ve got to try it, then. Let me buy you one, yeah?” Marina nodded and he ordered the drinks.

Eventually, they moved to a table to the back of the bar, next to the empty pool tables, where the music was quieter and the lights dimmer but steadier. For the first time in this life, she lost track of time. There, sitting next to him, leaning closer to follow him down the path of the memories he was weaving for her with his low, quiet voice, she caught herself smiling at the way his face lit up when he talked about his passion, his art, the people in his life, and his hopes for the future.

Before she knew it, she was sharing her memories and passions and hopes, too. She told him she was truly fascinated by people, by their contradictions, by their individuality within their immutable human condition that made them trip over the same obstacles and hurt each other in the same ways for thousands of years. They never learned, but they never gave up. Deep down, she admitted to herself she envied their warmth, their capacity for love and pleasure, but not their pain, their pettiness and their knack for self-destruction.

But she was not Marina, nor could she share anything else with him other than her stolen memories. She had no face for him, no name, no smiles, no funny childhood stories, no warmth in her fingers to leave on his skin like she wished he’d do with her. The woman he was talking to didn’t exist. Was that joy, that hunger she was feeling, that need for his warmth and his kindness truly hers, only buried in the sands of duty?

“It's getting late,” he sighed, “the bar closes at 3 so we’re getting kicked out soon anyway. And it’s time for me to go back to my hotel. It was a pleasure talking to you. Hope you had a good time, too."

“I did.”

“I hope this isn’t the last time we see each other.”

His voice was warm, inviting. There were so many possibilities for her to choose at that moment, and she stood still for a few seconds, weighing in her next step, ignoring the violent thumping in her chest that made her breathless. Even if it killed her, stealing her current face, becoming a traitor by becoming Marina, was an option. In her mind, she saw herself laughing with Marina’s zest, loving with the same intensity from her memories, feeling her hands warm for the first time. Or, she could bring his face home, but her hands started shaking with the thought of plunging the knife into him. She couldn’t kill him, but she had nothing more to offer than silence and a sharp blade.

“I’d love to, but I’m leaving the city in a few days.” There was a sadness in her voice that he seemed to pick up.

“Let me buy you food, at least?”

“I really can’t; I should be going home now.”

Nodding, he stood up and walked with her to the exit. Outside, the November breeze greeted them with a cold fist and a sharp mist, and they stood under the street light, having one long, last look at each other.

“Well, I’m going that way,” he pointed to an alley to his right and offered his other hand for a shake. “It was a pleasure, Marina. Best of luck to you.”

“I had a good time. Good luck to you, too." She shook his hand, revelling in his warmth, maybe holding on to it for a second or two longer than appropriate.

With a final, sad smile, he turned around and walked away into the narrow but well-lit alley. In turn, she turned to her left to reach the metro station on the main road.

****

Normally, taking off her face was the first step of her nightly routine. That night, however, she brought home more than a new face: she brought traces of his warmth in her hand, the sound of his laughter still ringing in her ears, and a newfound hunger devouring from the inside. It’d all be gone once she took off the face, but she dreaded diving back into the cold, white silence of her mind, a place where no one had smiled at her before or shook her hand or wished to see her again. In the darkness of her small studio, the silence challenged her to join it, return to the white, suffocating stillness of emptiness. Instead, she sat on the couch with his voice still fresh in her mind. She chose the memory of him and all the memories she inherited--her skin marked with his fire, the taste of his lips on hers, the way his eyes shone with love when they saw her enter his car on a Saturday night. That night, she’d dream, and the dreams would be, for once, her own.