Scribbler's Cafe

My favorite liar

The scene on the platform rolls past my train window like an old movie reel. A young woman in skin tight jeans lifts her ankle back to adjust the hell strap on her gold lame pumps just as my train pushes a wave of air against her, blowing her hair high and back. Her gesture is gorgeous and unaware. My mind flashes to those delicate Breyer horse models that my sister used to collect - the ones with the foals lifting their hind legs to scratch at their long chins. The precarious balance is caught forever, just like the flashing image of the girl on the platform, burned into my mind where she will remain unchanged.

Or will she? I remember her jeans as light denim, but I can't remember if the white around her hips was a belt or a tied sweater. Even the color of her hair blown back by the wind eludes me now. I choose a color - dyed orange like all the other fashionable 20-somethings in Japan - but it just as have been black.

Memory is a skillful liar, an expert at garnishing the smallest details and providing false image and story elements with complete authority and assuredness.

posted by Scribbler @ Friday, April 28, 2006