Heather Buyce-Vasquez
Lyllian, Seattle, 2017
“Michael why do you love me?” Lyllian has stretched out on the couch and draped her sock-covered feet on his lap.
He looks over at her with an expression that can only be exasperation. “Because you always remember to buy me a bag of hot wings when you know I’m having a bad day.” He answers deftly without taking his eyes away from the ball game on the television.
“I’m serious.” She responds sitting up. He looks at her then and smiles. Holds out his arms and tucks her into them. He even mutes the baseball game. Her heart warms at that.
“I love you because I do not know how not to. I love you because my body cannot stand to be parted from yours. I love you because your love makes me see myself as I want to be. A good husband and father.” He pauses, “And because I love the way your bottom looks when you are bending over the laundry or walking ahead of me.”
Lyllian laughs and feels her cheeks redden in pleasure. She knows these things. Yet sometimes she is still guarded and reluctant to believe it could have all worked put the way it did. It’s right then that she decides to tell him about the dreams and the blackouts. He is her husband and best friend. She feels like she is losing it and needs someone to reel her in.
Breath in, then out. “Michael can I talk to you?”
He smiles and flips off the tube. “What’s up? Are you going to tell me what’s been bothering you these last couple months finally?”
“What do you mean?” she asks hesitantly. The most recent incident was still fresh in her mind and it makes her blush to think of it. It had felt so real. The crushing dizzying euphoric feeling of his kisses. His. Who’s? She had no idea only that she had not wanted it to end and it was not her husband.
“Just that I know you Lyl. I know your face and your moods. Something has been bothering you. Distracting you. And it’s not just the dull monotonous office existence I k now you hate.” He turns her in his arms and tucks a frizzy curl behind her ear. His dark eyes are pools of concern and love.
Lyllian cannot meet them. She talks into her chest. “I can’t really explain it truly.” She starts. “It’s like being a different person altogether and I do not know her. Yet I’m there and it’s me. Seeing things. Doing things. Remembering and feeling thigs.” She stops after this rush and twists away.
Michael follows her to the edge of the couch. “Like what things? What are you seeing or…remembering?”
Lyllian shakes her head. Perhaps she is slowly losing her mind. Dementia? Isn’t that hereditary? It cannot possibly be what she sometimes thinks it is. When she is fresh from it and her mind is still open. Before it comes crashing back and commonsense kicks in shaking its head in reproachful sympathy. Because what she sometimes thinks it is is impossible.