Better Than Nothing

That morning, I woke up as if everything was normal. As if it was just business as usual. I tried to make myself get up. I tried to care enough to heave myself out of bed, but instead I just pulled the threadbare blanket up to my chin and curled up on my cot (it masqueraded as a bed, but everyone knew the truth) and wanted to die. Hands folded behind my head, I stared at the roof and counted the little perforations on the ceiling.

It was around nine AM when that dreaded air conditioning unit kicked on. I let out a sigh. With the wave of freezing cold air, depression rolled over me at the thought that she was out there. Marly. Out there right now, probably at work, with no memory of me at all. No memory of what we did. No memory of who she was or why she was so important to me.

No idea that we saved the world.

It took everything within me to muster my strength and kick off the blankets. Feet dancing on the ice-block floor, I fled into the dirty bathroom with its cracked mirror and stack of newspapers. The goose bumps didn’t go down until my plush robe was wrapped snuggly and warm around my shoulders. I considered turning on the radio, but couldn’t bear to do it. Why do they always have to be about losing somebody? The songs, I mean. Losing someone, or someone proving false to you and tearing out your heart and leaving it on the ground before you could sing. The songs were full of hatred. I wanted to hate. But it wasn’t Marly’s fault, not her amnesia, not the fact that she had no idea that she, Marlowe Tuck, not that silly ‘Jennifer’ that they called her by now.

It made me want to laugh out loud. The woman who had saved our city and the entire world and the entire human race was being called Jennifer. Now I know why Shakespeare wrote tragedies—it's more convenient and much, much neater if they all die, instead of living and making more embarrassments.
I clicked on the stove in the kitchen, and only then did my mind truly wander to the events of last month. I tried not to dwell on it. I tried, I tried, I tried. But I couldn’t stop. How I wanted to fly down to the square below and fall at her feet, begging, “A part of me is missing. Died, dead, and has ached every since. The part I gave to you. I want you to keep it, and always have it—but remember me, if nothing else, please, remember me. Remember me.”

Tears stung my eyes. At the smell of burning, I looked down, and surprise registered dully when I saw smoke billowing from the ancient stove.

I had done it again. After this entire ordeal, I had burnt the pancakes again. It was almost like all this had never happened. Almost.

It was a warm and sunny summer day. It tore me up inside, like always, to know that she was down there waiting for me (not really—but I liked to think of it as such), so I threw on some dirty clothes and headed on down through the apartment halls. Said monotonous good mornings to the neighbors. Put on a happy face. It wasn’t so hard now. Not when I knew that I was about to see her. Just seeing her face, her beautiful sculpted face framed by those waves of golden hair, made my heart race and jump and stop and flip.

So I went down to the square. It was a pretty little fountain ringed by restaurants, including a cute little coffee shop with an outdoor veranda. I took a seat at an Italian place across the square and watched that coffee shop—and the slender blond woman who walked around, jotting down orders. How strange to see her in a plain old apron. Her hair was pulled up in a ponytail, something I knew the old her would never allow. She carried a pen and a pad of paper and she laughed at her customer’s jokes. She was a sun, a star, a single point in the galaxy that everything else in the world endlessly revolved around, sucked in by her wit, her beauty, her grace. Her brilliant smile had its own gravitational pull.

I stared at her for the longest time. But she didn’t look over. Because she couldn’t see me. She couldn’t see anything. It was all in front of her face, and she was blind to it. The places where our best moments were shared, where we fought for the world, where she nearly lost her life.
They call dying the ultimate sacrifice. I disagreed. The worst thing had to be living, and not knowing.

My heart broke every time I heard her voice and I was not able to be with her. My heart broke every time I heard her name in my head but all that my ears registered was “Jennifer”. My heart broke every time I thought of her, and my heart broke every time I dreamed of her. I’d waited twenty-two years for someone like her to come along.
A soft smile spread over my face. It still hurts to smile, but at least I remember how. I leaned my chin on my hand and watched her, my unrequited love. Unrequited even when she did remember me, mind you. For as I looked back on this, I’d figured something out. I may not have liked it, but I wouldn’t change it for anything. It was a roller coaster ride. It was death-defying. It was thrilling. It was terrifying. And Marly, she was breathtaking. How neat and orderly my world used to be! Everything made sense. I could’ve told you exactly what I would’ve been doing tomorrow. I could’ve told you exactly what I would’ve been doing TEN DAYS from tomorrow. But then… I met her.
This story, my story, our story—it should be told to people. I hate seeing her serve coffee in that square when once upon a time she served justice to evildoers. I hate it!
Jennifer. Marly. Jennifer. Marly, Marly, Marly. I loved her. I love her. And I decided that memories are better than nothing.

I stood up from my seat and left the check at the Italian joint. Emerging into the sunlight, I crossed the square.
I would go to the coffee shop, introduce myself to Jennifer/Marly, and ask her if she would like to go out for lunch.

And that’s all. The end is the end, until it starts all over again.