I woke up to the smell of coffee, and I knew there was someone else in the house. The pillow beside me was crushed and matted with use, the sheets tangled. Oh shit, I thought. I sat up in bed; there was a pile of clothes on the floor either side - mine, on my side, and a stranger's, a female stranger's, on the other. I clamped my eyes shut and dug the heels of my palms into them. What the fuck. Again?

I swung my legs out of bed and opened the drawer of my bedside table. There was still an unopened box of condoms in it. Unopened. Shit, again. I stood and groaned; my head throbbed, my mouth tasted like a garbage dump had puked diarrhea into it. The smell of coffee coming from the kitchen was making my stomach roll over.

Stepping into a pair of sweats, I went into the bathroom and surveyed myself. No black eyes, no split lips. Just an all-American fuck machine. Shit, again. Who was that making coffee? Who's clothes were those? I left the bathroom after a thorough tooth-brushing and bent over the pile of women's clothes. 

The panties were pink, the bra was pink, the jeans were dark blue, the top was peach. There as no purse; she probably took it with her into the kitchen. No overprotective mother had stitched this girl's name into her panties. I had nothing. No recollection of this person. Face the music, I told myself.

Opening the bedroom door, I went down the hall to the kitchen. She stood with her back to me, wearing only an old pair of my boxers she must have found in a drawer. Sure enough, her purse was on the counter; next to it was her phone. She didn't hear me come in, so I stood watching her. She was drinking from a mug, she was tall and slim, nice legs. Olive skinned. Black hair. Who the fuck was this girl?

I cleared my throat and stepped forward; she turned, smiling. "Good morning," she said, chipper as a flight attendant. Drawing a blank. She was pretty, green eyes, small lips, small tits. "Morning," I managed. Her teeth were very straight, very white. She might be my dental hygienist, I thought.

"How you feeling this morning?" she asked.

"Bit of a headache," I answered. She laughed. 

"I'm not surprised. You really put it away last night," she patted my arm. "Not that it affected your performance any. Wow, is all I can say. That's what I texted my friend when I got up, is that tacky or what?"

I granted it was, but didn't elaborate much. I accepted a cup of coffee from her, her fingers sliding along mine as she passed the mug. She glanced up at microwave clock.

"Shit," she barked. "I've got to get going. I'm showing a house this morning."

"You're a real estate agent?" I ventured. She looked at me puzzled and laughed. 

"You really did get shitfaced, didn't you? We talked about real estate for an hour last night."

This was news to me, as I know nothing about real estate, but I am a good faker, especially if there is some ass to be had out of it. But really, I had no memory of this woman, or last night. The idea that I bullshitted about real estate with her, while drunk, for an hour, was utterly bizarre.

She downed her mug, raced back to the bedroom - with her purse and phone - and I heard water running. She emerged ten minutes later in the clothes that had been piled on the floor. 

"That was an amazing night. Just what I needed," she cooed, coming close for a kiss. I gave her one; no memories jogged.

"We should do it again then," I ventured. She was hot, certainly, and I had apparently made a good impression.

She lit up like an all-night pharmacy sign. "Yes! I was hoping you'd say that!" She pulled her phone from her back pocket. 

"What's your number?" I told her.

Then she smiled like she'd just farted in church and gave me a little nervous giggle. 

"Um. What was your name again?" she asked.

The restaurant was nestled between a dry cleaners and a car rental shop. Thai - my favorite ethnic food. I was looking forward to slurping up the spicy Tom Yuk and digging into the mound of Pad Thai noodles. I was alone, not unusual for the middle of the week when I had to work late. My husband was home looking after our two kids, knowing that I'd bring him back a doggie bag when I was through.

I had felt a little "off" all day, as if I were somehow in the wrong place all the time, but I had shrugged it off as the product of work stress and a couple of sleepless nights staying up with the baby. I told myself the food would go a long way toward putting me "right." Sit, eat, relax. It became almost a mantra.

I opened the door and was greeted by the mingled odors of exotic spices, the soft chatter of dozens of people, and the clatter of utensils on the dishes. The dim lighting mellowed me out quickly, and I stepped up to the queue for a seat.

"Hello! Fancy seeing you here."

I looked around for the woman's voice, wondering whom she was talking to.

Suddenly a roundish woman dressed in a pink shirt and checkered slacks stood right next to me, extending her hand. She must have seen my puzzled expression, because she added, "Karen Affron, we met at Tracy's party last month."

"Oh," I said, not remembering in the slightest. "Yes, I guess we did."

She pumped my hand up and down for a moment.

"So how're you doing?"

"Keeping busy."

"Oh, Harold," she suddenly called out, "come meet ..."

She stopped suddenly. "You know, I'm so embarrassed, but I don't remember your name."

Harold, a portly, middle-aged man in an Aloha shirt sidled up.

"Harold, this is ..."

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The scene was so surreal - two people pumping me for the most basic piece of information, and I couldn't provide it. I had no idea why.

"Oh, do they have a seat ready?" I craned my neck as if suddenly distracted by the hostess.

"There's no need to be rude," Karen pouted. "I was just trying to be friendly."

"No, no, it's not that ... I'm sorry, but ... I'm just having a bad day." I tried to stall for time. The "off" world seemed even more off-kilter than ever, like something out of "The Twilight Zone." Karen kept looking at me expectantly. I could make up a name, I supposed; would she even know the difference?

But Karen was clearly miffed by the apparent sleight. "No, no, don't let the likes of us bother you," she retorted. "Come on, Harold, we know when we're not wanted." And she steered Harold back to their table.

I stood there, speechless and nameless. Could it be just stress? I looked at my phone. In my Contacts list there was a button labeled "Home." I wished it had my husband's name there, too. I had no idea how I was going to explain this call to him when he picked up.

#amnesia #names #challenge #drama

Oh god, this was awkward. I knew that I knew their name, somewhere in the back of my mind. It had probably come up in previous conversation, but I never cared to focus on it. 

But now...ugh. The new guy chatting to us by the coffee machine, and my mind drew a complete blank. He wasn't that new anymore, either - it'd been around three months since he joined the firm, well past the time where I could ask without the situation being colossally uncomfortable. 

So I stood there with Meg while he chatted to us, hoping the name would come up. That happens sometimes, right? People use their own names in conversation. Maybe I could avoid the situation entirely. 

Stuck in my head, I completely missed the joke no-name-guy was telling us, until abrupt giggling halted my internal berating. I joined in the laughter as to not draw suspicion, without any real clue about what was so funny. 

"That's great," said Meg, slapping her knee. "Oh my god, don't tell me that really happened." 

"I swear by it," new guy said, as the two tried to regain composure. "I couldn't make this stuff up."

He poured himself some coffee, and the conversation turned to our weekend plans. His brother was playing at some bar with his band on Saturday, so he'd probably be dropping by to that. Meg had a date with another guy she met online. 

My plans pretty much consisted locking myself inside my apartment to binge watch Netflix with my cat, so I observed more than I contributed to the topic. As the two talked, my thoughts turned back to the unknown name. 

Maybe he was Zach. He kind of looked like one, with his greenish eyes and cool-guy demeanor. Maybe he was more of a Josh. Or Matt. 

Really, it shouldn't be this hard to ask. I could totally do this. Maybe I could ask to exchange numbers - that's always a sure way to get someone's name. You just give them your phone and let them type their info in. But then maybe he'd get the wrong impression, and think I was trying to hit on him. Not that I would be. But god, what if he turned me down? I didn't want to date him, but that would be a blow to my self esteem. What if he didn't?

Yeah, no. Asking for his phone number was out. 

Maybe I could ask Meg - after all, she seemed to know him pretty well. As much as I liked my desk neighbor though, she was lacked the ability to, as we say, keep her mouth shut about anything. She was notoriously a huge gossip, and would probably tell no-name guy I was too embarrassed to ask about his name which would only make things more awkward than if I just asked his name in the first place. 

I was just going to ask him. Rip the band-aid off. Sure, it'd be a little unpleasant, but at least I'd know his name. 

I turned back to the conversation, resolute in my quest to learn his name. 

"Anyways, we should probably get back to work," he said. Do it now, I thought. C'mon, just get it over with. Ask him. 

Before I could get the words out, he turned to me. 

"It was nice talking to you," he said smiling, "By the way, could you tell me your name again?" 

Wait. What?

Thank God for

Brain injury, short

Term memory 

Loss

Provides great

Excuse

Coupled with

Lack of "filter"

Easy to ask...

"What'd you say

Your name was again?"

X was getting married so M and V and J and I went to Santa Barbara to witness.  All of us were in our best suits (I wore trunks and an undershirt for the drive and changed in the bathroom) and we hung out together as we had since high school.

Somehow, and boy did J let us know it was awesome, some woman interrupted our conversation to start talking to J.  We were there early as possible -- X moved parishes a year ahead to be able to marry at the Mission itself-- so we had a good two hours for chat.

She didn't have much to say to the rest of us.

She walked off to greet her friends, and J said, "Oh yeah! I'm totally in sync with this girl and I don't even know her name!"  as if that really was a great place to be.

She came back, to talk to J, and time came for M and V to go stand with X.  J and this girl went to sit together in church.  

The ceremony lasted over an hour and they were together the whole time.

M and V and J and I met at the front of the Mission again and J said, without her there to hear, "We're gonna drive to the reception together! And I don't even know her name!"

She came back and stood next to J.  By then I'd had enough, so I said in a loud voice, "So who are you, and why are you here?"

She laughed and we introduced ourselves.  I don't remember whether I repeated her name out loud but I should have.  I guess I like to be helpful.

As the first exchange student ever in that school I was like the star of a freak show. I was bombarded with numerous questions that were mostly either difficult or, quite frankly, stupid.

“How much does it snow in Finland in winter?”

I don't know. There's snow, and then there's more snow, and then some of it melts, and freezes into ice, and then there comes more snow on top of that ice. Do you all take statistics about how many millimeters it rains during the winter months?

“Did you travel here by car or by plane?”

I'm not sure if you're saying that you have never seen a world map or that you usually sleep through geography lessons. No, I didn't drive my car through the Atlantic ocean.

I didn't actually mind the questions. I did my best to answer them, and usually people were happy with whatever I came up with. After a few questions they got bored and left me alone, probably immediately forgetting what I had said to them two minutes earlier.

There were some questions I would have preferred to skip though. No one, including me, could have guessed that the most embarrassing question was this.

“Give us a sample of Finnish!”

When you learn a foreign language you most likely learn it through your native language. You think of a sentence in the language you're most familiar with, then you translate it in your mind to the other language before actually saying it out loud. That takes a lot of effort. It's much easier if you can skip the translation part and start thinking straight in the foreign language instead. That's why I hated that question. After a couple of months hearing, reading and speaking only English, I formed my thoughts in that language. Switching the language my brain works on is not easy. I struggled to express myself in Finnish, even though it was my native language.

“Just say something, like who you are, and the names of your family members.” The teacher tries to help me when I'm struggling to find something to say.

Okay. I can do this. Surely I remember my family. Right?

Minun nimeni on Minna. My name is Minna. I struggle a little with pronunciation but they're not going to know if I have a slight accent. So far so good.

Perheeseeni kuuluu äiti, isä ja isoveli. My family includes mother, father, and an older brother.

Veljeni nimi on Toni. My brother's name is Toni. Isäni nimi on… What is my father's name again? Is it Heikki? The name tastes right in my mouth. I think I got it right.

Äitini nimi on… My ability to dig out memories that aren't in English seems to end there. I have no idea what my mother's name might be. I could fill in some other name. It's not like they're going to check if I'm telling the truth. Any name, some random Finnish name. Some word that sounds like a name. Anything.

My mind draws blank.

I mumble something incoherent. They don't really care what her name is, right? They just wanted to hear what Finnish sounds like.

“What was that last one? Your mother's name?”

Teacher seems actually interested. Why is she interested? I try to buy time even though it doesn't help me any. What did you ask again?

“I didn't hear what was your mother's name. Could you please repeat that?” She speaks extra slowly and clearly to make sure I understand her.

I really wish I could repeat that. I wonder what they'd say if I told them I can't remember my mother's name. Would they think I'm lying? Would they think I'm stupid, or crazy? Would they assume something bad about my mother?

I open and close my mouth like a fish gasping for air. I… I don't…

Riikka! That's my mother's name. It’s Riikka.

Teacher tries to say it after me, failing pretty badly, but I smile and nod to tell her it's close enough. Finally she thanks me for being the circus monkey for the morning and gets on with the lesson.

A few hours later I remember my mother's name. It's Riitta, with double t. In the evening I make a small note to myself with the names of my family members in it. Just in case someone asks again.

She's watching me, smiling, like she knows me. Like I should know her. I don't have to tell you that I didn't have a clue who she was.

     "Hi, Miss Emma!" she calls, running over and hugging me.

     Awkwardly, I hug her back, still confused about who this young woman is. I've met plenty of people in my sixty years, but I remember them all.

     "Where's Mister Grant?" she questions.

     "Oh...uh, my husband passed away seven years ago," I stammer out, squinting at the pretty brunette in front of me. How does she know about my husband?!

     "I'm so sorry, Miss Emma. Also, I'm sorry to bring that up. But I came over to thank you." Once again, she's looking at me like I should know her. I don't.

     "Oh, uh...what for, dear?" I ask, since I can't remember her name.

     "You don't remember me, do you?" she teases. "Remember, twenty years ago, when you were teaching English; the rowdy one in the back who was causing...disruptions?"

     A vague memory surfaces. "Yes," I say, dragging the word out.

     "That was me. You were so firm and consistant with me, but gentle...it made an impression on me." She brushes away tears of gratefulness as she envelopes me in another hug. "You inspired me. Guess what I do for a living?"

     I haven't a clue, so she tells me.

     "I teach English," she grins. "There's a rowdy girl in the back. I haven't given up on her; just like you didn't give up on me."

Originally, my plan was to let her talk a mile a minute about their life and hobbies and such. It's our second date, this time to an Italian restaurant rather than a Mexican one, because tacos and gas don't mix for a good icebreaker. She smiles at me and goes on and on about her life, growing up a military brat. How she lived in Germany, Korea, Taiwan, Arizona. I force a smile and laugh along with her as she recalls a story about when her dad had to babysit her for the day which forced his hand to drag her along base with him.

Now what was it... I think, swallowing down pasta with nervous sweat tricking down my neck. Angela? No, that was the girl from before that was an accountant or something. Becky? Louise? Cameron? Tyler? The more I get lost in my thoughts, the more I stop listening to Whatever-Her-Name-Is reminisce.

"Carter? Carter." I snap out of my thoughts and force yet another obviously strained, what-am-I-doing-here smile.

"Yeah?"

"You weren't listening."

"What? No. Keep going. I want to here more." I've always had this issue where my face goes red whenever I tell a lie. Woman-Who-Was-A-Military-Brat's face drops and she looks concerned.

"Are you okay? You're really flushed." Before I get the chance to say anything, she picks up a napkin and leans over the table to wipe the sweat from my forehead. One glance down and I remember exactly why I forgot her name. If possible, my face gets even hotter and I splutter out a, uh, something, before launching back in my chair, distancing us.

"N-N-No, Boobies, I'm all good, I'm--" She doesn't even have to say anything to cut me off. I do it myself. A silence looms over the both of us like a thundercloud and from the dark look on her face, I'm about to be struck.

"Boobies?" Though she's pissed, she seems like she's beyond used to the comment. "Tch. Typical men. Disrespecting women and objectifying their bodies. I should have known you were one of those misogynists." She grabs her clutch and stands up from her chair, about to leave.

"No! Wait!" I shoot up from my chair, taking her wrist before she can leave me.

"What?" She hisses, eyes darkening even more (if possible).

"I, uh, I just..." I sigh deeply and let my hand fall to my side. "I'm just really bad with names. And I know that this is our second date and we've been texting over Tinder, but yeah. I'm so sorry."

Another silence. Hot-Boob-Lady-With-Satan's-Glare had an unreadable look on her face. I force another smile, one of please-don't-use-the-knife-on-the-table-to-kill-me-with.

"I get it." She sighs, yanking her hand away with a forced smile in return. "Men are the inferior race after all. I guess it makes sense that you'd make such an idiotic mistake." She laughs and sits back down, taking a sip of wine. "Sorry I got so defensive. I should have known better than to put all of my expectations in you," she grins at the stunned look, motioning to my empty seat.

I order Chinese when I get home. Feminazi-With-The-Nice-Rack shouldn't have been so surprised when I walked out on her crazy ass.

©SelfTitled, 2017

I shifted my pack to my other shoulder and brushed through the glass door, breathing in the book scent. The sound of pages flipping and awkward coughing occasionally filled the silence. I was back at the academy.

I walked quickly through the hallway towards my suite, which I would share with one other girl. I just couldn't seem to recall their name...

When I slid into the room there she was on the bed, legs dangling and brown hair covering her face. As soon as she saw me her face lit up and she bounced off the bed. She walked up to me as I stood awkwardly at the door and opened her arms. Before I realized what was actually happening she folded me into a huge hug.

Her face was so familiar, I just couldn't place my finger on where I had seen her before.

"Hi!" she exclaimed, and made jazz hands, "It's just amazing to see you again! Erica, right?"

I nodded and gulped internally, feeling really, really bad. What was her name!

"Hi," I offered tentatively, and knowing what I had to do, "What was your name again?"

Her face fell and she crossed her arms, making me squirm.

"No! I'm kidding, only kidding! I'm not mad!," she laughed, dropping the serious face, "I'm Emily and actually not surprised you don't remember me, since we met once three years ago where you submit your admission forms."

I let out a nervous laugh, and smiled, glad to have finally jumped that hurdle.

I was walking through the store and stopped short. 

      "What's the matter?" My friend asked. I pointed down the aisle and she nods. "I'm going to let you handle this one." She goes into a different aisle and the smiles and gives me a thumbs-up. I smile and then sigh. Why do I always get stuck with this stuff? 

     "Hey," I say as the person down the aisle waves. She walks toward me and I rack my brain for her name. Starts with an A I think to myself. 

     "Hey, how's it going?" She says. 

     "Good, how 'bout you?" I rack my brain again why she talks. 

     "I'm good. I just came to the store to get the milk and stuff," She says. "I have a really big exam tomorrow and I'm really nervous about it."  

     "Is it in English?" I asked. 

     "No, math," She says. I nod. 

     "Well, I'll see you tomorrow," She says. "Have a good day." 

     "I will you too," I smile. 

      "Why can't I remember his name?" I hear her say as she walks away. 

     "Oh!" I say. I smack my forehead. "That was her name. Chloe!"