Marja Hagborg

Yesterday never comes back, but it never leaves you alone as long as you keep all your windows closed and your doors locked. It lingers in your coat closet and your messy desk drawers, even in your medicine cabinet.

One eye can cry while the other one keeps staring at the fly on the window screen. You say you are not a clown who entertains lonely children and numb men in their uniforms and women with swollen faces. You say you have your dignity. You have your dignity! Do you really believe that's a real word with a meaning?

Do you remember when you fell in love with the guy with three eyes? No, not really three eyes like, three eyeballs, but an invisible third eye in his forehead. You remember how you swooned for him, don't you? He also loved gin and tonic and menthol cigarettes. You used to say he was a girly man with a little cute penis and soft lips. A great kisser, you said. He had a wife, three kids and a dog, an expensive pure breed you thought was just a status symbol for him. You don't remember him? Oh, yes, you do! This is the point where you wish you had amnesia. You keep stubbornly lying to me.

You and I, we live in the same head. Yes, we do! You have always ignored me, but sooner or later you have to admit that you can't cut me off like a piece of rotten meat. We share our memories and even our favorite color. We share everything! I'm with you when you put your bare feet in the water that's much colder than your thought, so cold it hurts. I'm with you when you sit on a rock close to the water, dangling your feet.

A cloud covers the sun for a moment. We stare at the driftwood and a piece of plastic in the sand in front of you. They are just distractions like your memory of the child molester with shaky fingers under your blue and white summer dress, his pale, narrow face close to yours.