On Saturday, on Sunday, I relive the events of Friday night as if it is a slow-motion dream turned into a nightmare that I can’t get out of. I remember realizing Aurora liked me, the feel of her lips against mine, the smell of her hair: like rain and cinnamon. I remember seeing the look of horror dawn in her eyes after I told her the truth about myself: she thought I was crazy.
It is like those phantom feelings I get about my hands sometimes, the sensation that I have limbs where I do not. Aurora is like one of those phantoms now. I keep feeling as though she must still be there, and yet I know that she isn’t.
Misty has no way of knowing what’s happened, although she does ask me about it. I refuse to talk, spending the weekend in a state of monklike silence. It doesn’t stop her, however. In an effort to snap me out of my funk, she insists on a marathon session of pool. She even lets me break. It doesn’t matter.
I lose every game.