The Trouble With Having a Good Memory

Have you ever noticed how ridiculously selective our memory can be?

I can forget why I walked into the kitchen, where I left my keys, or what I was supposed to buy at the supermarket.

But ask me about a particular dinner, and apparently I can give you a detailed report.

Including the lighting conditions.

Especially the lighting conditions.

We'd gone out for dinner, and everything was going rather well until we were shown to our table.

There was a light pointing directly into our eyes.

Now, personally, I thought we could probably survive dinner without permanently damaging our eyesight.

He disagreed.

Quite passionately.

I've honestly never met a man who could complain so much about a restaurant table.

Actually, let me correct that.

I've never met anyone who could complain so much. Period 🤭

There was some negotiating, a little rearranging, and a very serious discussion about whether the lighting was acceptable for human consumption.

Eventually, we moved to a different table.

And I ordered gnocchi.

Lovely choice.

Except they arrived at approximately the temperature of the sun.

Naturally, I took a bite without waiting.

And burned my mouth.

Very elegant.

Very sophisticated.

Exactly the impression every woman hopes to make during a romantic dinner.

He laughed, of course.

I probably deserved it.

But here's the funny thing about that evening.

I remember the ridiculous light. The complaints. The dangerously hot gnocchi.

And I remember the way he looked at me across the table.

That part, especially.

At some point, neither of us seemed particularly interested in eating anymore.

Not because the food wasn't good.

We simply wanted to leave.

To have a little more time together, somewhere we didn't have to sit politely across from each other with a table between us.

And so we did.

I remember the kisses. The hugs. The tickling. The laughter.

The kind of laughter that makes you forget what you were saying halfway through a sentence.

And then there was the taxi.

Apparently, I took a little too long to fasten my seat belt.

He noticed immediately.

And told me off.

Not terribly seriously, but seriously enough that I remember it.

In my defense, I was rather distracted.

There was a very handsome man sitting beside me, his arms were a particularly lovely place to be, and paying attention to the outside world wasn't exactly at the top of my priorities.

I did eventually fasten my seat belt.

Responsible adult. Always.

Well, almost always.

And yes, I know that being on cloud nine doesn't exempt anyone from road safety regulations.

But surely I can be forgiven for forgetting about gravity for a few seconds? 🤭

It's strange, isn't it?

How an entire evening can remain somewhere in your memory, not because everything was perfect, but because of all those wonderfully imperfect little moments.

The ridiculous complaints.

The burnt tongue.

The stolen kisses.

The laughter.

The way someone looked at you when they thought you weren't paying attention.

I couldn't tell you what I wore to every dinner I've ever attended.

I certainly couldn't tell you what I ordered last Tuesday.

But that evening?

I remember almost everything.

Which is rather inconvenient, considering I still can't remember where I put my keys.

And for the record, if we ever go back to that restaurant, I have just one request.

Please, someone check the lighting before he arrives 🤍

Follow me