Read Online Monochrome by H.M. Jones - Free Book Online Page A

powder rose and fell around him. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to be demanding or…”
    She slid down the trunk of the tree to sit on the ground, as well. “Weird?” She supplied, only half joking.
    He laughed. “Yeah, weird. Sorry. You recite poetry beautifully. Even under pressure.” He coughed uncomfortably.
    Abigail wrapped her arms around her knees. “What was that about, anyway?”
    Ishmael picked at a hole in the knee of his pants. “I think I knew that poem. I must’ve given it up, probably a blue memory.” He paused, scratching his short beard absently. “I can’t say for sure, but I have other Coleridge poems in here still.” He pointed to his head. “When you recited it, I felt a twinge or something. It reminded me of the other poems I know by him, but I couldn’t recall that one, no matter how far you got. It’s like meeting a person whose name you should know, someone you liked or respected. You see them, you know their face, but, no matter how you try, you know you will never remember the name. It’s infuriating.”
    She crunched a purple leaf under her shoe. “Like when I couldn’t think of my memory of Ash after giving it up. I thought of other memories I shared with her, but I not the one I gave. There was a hole in my memories of her.”
    “Exactly.”
    “What’s a blue memory?”
    If she hadn’t been watching him, she might’ve missed his shiver. “One up from a purple memory, which is one up from a pink. A blue memory is more integrated into your life and relationships with others than a pink or purple memory. A blue memory is usually tied to a special person from your life, someone important. It’s tricky telling someone what the distinctions between pink, purple, blue, yellow and gold memories are, but it’s not necessary anyway. When you’re asked for a specific memory, only memories in that category will come to mind. I don’t know exactly how it happens. It’s like your mind is wired to this place.”
    Ishmael watched Abigail to see if she understood his explanation. She didn’t know what to say. His explanation horrified her. To think a place could read one’s memories made her feel frigid to her core.
    Shivering, she wrapped her grey scarf around her more tightly, and asked a question she thought might make him uncomfortable.
    “Do you remember who that poem was tied to? I know your memory of the poem is gone, but do you know who made it important?”
    To her surprise, he didn’t appear annoyed. Instead, he furrowed his brows seriously. “I still know another Coleridge poem by heart, but it’s not necessarily tied to anyone. I mean, it’s important because it just fits me.”
    His thought process seemed strained to Abigail, as he reached for an answer inside his jumble of mixed memories, floating through his mind unattached to a companion.
    “I was in high school when I went through my Coleridge love affair.” He smirked shyly. “So that means the memory was…I think…Jen’s.”
    He said it matter-of-factly, as if her name didn’t matter at all. He seemed relieved to remember something about her poem, anything, but was not overly attached to the woman behind the name. Still, “Constancy” was about a man driven to desperation for a woman who was ideal in his mind, if not in fact. She didn’t understand how he sounded so subdued.
    “She was important to you, then? A long-time girlfriend?” She knew she was being nosy, but she couldn’t help it. She was now very curious, for some reason.
    But he only shrugged, stood and brushed his pants. “She probably was. I don’t know.”
    Abigail stayed seated. “You don’t know because you have no memories left of her?”
    “No, I have memories of her, just not good ones. I don’t know why I cared about her because all I have left are the fights, the awkward silences, and the obnoxious things about her.”
    He shrugged again. “In my mind, she isn’t even beautiful because she seems so unlikeable.