So the other day I get a knock on my apartment door. I answer and Maya Taylor’s standing there, hands full of papers and her laptop.
“Hi Maya,” I said. “How have you been?”
“Since last week?” she answers. “Fine.”
She pushes her way into the room and drops her stuff on the kitchen table.
Turning to confront me she continues. “Question is how have you been? Last week at our regular meeting I barely recognized you. It’s like you weren’t even here. And that’s not the first time. You’ve been getting stranger and stranger over the past few months. I decided it was time to confront you. What the hell is going on?”
I decided I’d better come clean. This is one person I trust. One person who actually knows me.
“To tell you the truth, I have no idea. I don’t remember last week . . . Hell, I don’t remember last month.”
She crosses her arms and taps her foot. “So you haven’t even looked at the edits.”
She points to the stack of papers on the table. “Our book . . . remember?”
It turns out we’ve been getting together weekly over the past six months, and the book is coming together nicely. Things I don’t even remember writing. Maya was patient with me, showing me the things we’d done, explaining some of the changes that needed to be made to tighten up the story.
We worked for three hours straight.
As she was preparing to leave she confronted me. “I can see you’re going through some shit that you don’t want to discuss with me. I’m good with that. But, promise me you’ll get something done on this by next week.”
I told her I would. It will be nice to have something to concentrate on while I’m trying to figure out what’s going on with my lost memories.
“By the way,” I ask as I’m seeing her to the door. “When did they close the North Point Supper Club?”
“That old place?” She asks, cocking her head. “It’s been closed for years.”