The steady buzzing invading my consciousness was my friend on the other end of the telephone asking if I’d managed to get home OK in the rain. After a moment of surprised silence, I told her that I hadn’t seen her in weeks. I assumed that this was her way of telling me that we were overdue for a coffee together.
Her voice was both concerned and agitated. “I saw you earlier today,” she insisted. I shook my head. This was getting ridiculous. “You came to see me,” she said. “You wore your red jersey dress. I complimented you on the color of your lipstick. It was raining, and you said you’d take a taxi back. We called one for you but he could only meet you on the next road because of all the construction on this one. I couldn’t find my umbrella, so you said you’d run to the end of the road to meet the taxi.”
I only own one dress that fits that description. I walked upstairs, my friend still on the phone, and looked for it in my closet. It wasn’t there. I found it in the bathroom hanging on the hook behind the door. It was damp.
As the room reeled around me, I put my hand out and touched the solid wall. I heard myself say, “I think I lost some time again.”
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