THAT

pleasant summer day is only punctuated by infrequent gusts of a strong wind. The kids of
the apartment complex had to move their bug zoo inside and hide it under the stairwell.
All the bugs are sleeping now and the kids are worried. One girl says it will be okay
because it is still early in the day.
Up in apartment 109, Claire is still lying in the same spot. Every time the wind
blows through the apartment her nightgown billows outwards, exposing her pale, naked
body. The breeze has blown a paper towel onto the floor. Four flies hover around the
sandwich. Twenty-four flies hover around Claire’s body, creating a quiet, consistent
buzzing. The room is humid even with the window open.
Claire’s memories haven’t disappeared from the apartment yet. They are
invisible and immeasurable, yet they still hang heavy in the air. These memories will be
gone in a month, maybe two, but for now they still float idly, staining the walls and the
furniture.
Above Claire’s body drifts a memory of her face turning blue, choking on the
corner of a turkey sandwich. There is an amused smile on her face as she falls to the
kitchen floor.
In the living room, on a beige recliner with stuffing sticking out of the left armrest,
is a memory that contains the man from the Ford Taurus.
“You have to remember to turn off the oven if you cook, mom,” the man says.
The man is sitting on the recliner and Claire is dusting in the living room. He is looking
at her, concerned.
“How are you and Katie?” Claire asks, looking over her shoulder as she dusts a
photograph of the downtown Los Angeles skyline.
He sighs. “I don’t know. Fine, I think.”
“You better watch her.” Claire stops dusting and looks over at her son.
“Mom. The oven.”
“There is something I don’t trust about that woman.” Claire looks away from her
son and continues to dust.
Outside of the memories, a cluster of cotton from a cottonwood tree has journeyed
with a gust of wind, making its way up through apartment 109’s open window and
finally settling on the navy sectional next to the beige recliner. The sectional is stained
with an image of Claire and her husband, who died several years ago, sitting there holding
hands and watching a black-and-white film. Claire looks up at him and smiles and
he smiles back, moving closer to her and removing his hand from hers to wrap his arm
around her shoulders. They are excited to go to the farmers market the next day; Claire
likes looking at rusty antiques and her husband likes finding foods that he’s never tried
before. Later that night, long after Claire has gone to bed, he’ll sit near the window in the
living room, looking out of his 1958 Unitron telescope; sometimes until two or three in
the morning.
At that moment there is a quick knock at the door that silences the memories.
The door opens and Claire’s son steps into the entryway. His eyes are puffy and he rubs
them while standing on the welcome mat in the front entrance. After he rubs his eyes
he starts to talk as he walks further inside. “Mom, I’m sorry I wasn’t here last week or
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