THE TRESTLE

“Can I borrow your memory?”

I blinked at the question, running a hand through my hair as it whipped around in the open air of the convertible. Without thinking, I laughed stupidly, giving him a quizzical stare.

“What are you talking about? Just keep driving, Tom.” I reacted as casually as I could about it; he confused me a lot when we were on the open road. Always popping up with random and strange questions...it kinda bugged me, really.

He kept going, though, never turning from the wheel to look at me. “I’m serious, Liz. I’ll need it, you know.” He said it so obviously that even I had to pause for a second and wonder if I had missed something important earlier in our conversation.

After my hesitation, however, I scrunched my face up in annoyance, irritated with how well he could manipulate me. “I don’t know what you’re saying, Tom,” I told him brusquely, so that he might take the hint. For a while I thought he did, since he didn’t say anything else-- then, suddenly, he just went off again.

“Liz, you’re making this more difficult than it is.”

The firmness of his statement irked me; he, more than anyone else, knew what kind of girl I was. I was the kind not to be jerked around, though I guess that Tom was just the sort of guy who liked to push a person’s buttons. I frowned, unable to hold back my spitefulness towards his smart-ass nature.

“Fine then, Tom. What the hell do you want my memory for?” I asked mostly out of an innate curiosity; as much as I hated his psychobabble, I knew that the only way to get him to stop it was to figure out what he was talking about. He kept quiet for a moment, and the acceleration on the car never changed. My hair still lashed out in the wind, and I squinted at him when blonde bangs fell in front of my face. A couple more minutes of this silence, I thought, and I’d scream. Luckily, though, he found his voice.

“You know the creek down by the trestle back home? The one where all the broken glass is?”

I smiled at the mention; Tom and I, we used to go down there all the time when we were kids, and even as a grown-up, I still visited the place every now and then. I nodded in recognition. “Yeah, what about it?”

He looked uncomfortable at the question-- whenever somebody asked him something back, he always got that constipated look on his face. I almost laughed at the thought, but kept it inside. If I started giggling now, he’d never tell me what he was on his mind, and, in turn, never leave me alone with his useless interrogation.

I waited, though. Better to let him sort out his thoughts than to snag a half-assed answer from him. Not like it would make much sense either way, but...at least this way I knew that he’d had some time. When he finally looked up, I watched closely. He sighed before beginning, as though pained to reply.

“I don’t remember it, Liz. None of it-- the stuff we did there, all the paths you talk about...there’s nothing there when I try to remember it.”

My eyebrows unconsciously crinkled at his words. Not remember? How could he not remember? It was a little off, to say the least.

“What do you mean, ‘I don’t remember’? That place was basically our whole childhood, Tom.” I was skeptical of him, and with good reason. I continued, totally floored by his unexplainable lapse of memory. “And how do you even know that we were by the trestle if you can’t remember any of it, huh?” I admit, I sounded childish by that point, but still! It was all rather unbelievable, and if I knew Tom, he was prone to being pretty out-there.

He stuck with his story, ignoring my challenges. “Look, Liz, all I know is that I can’t remember anything except the place, and even that’s pretty fuzzy. I just want you to let me borrow your memory, so I can figure out what happened.” He sounded almost sad, and I couldn’t help but feel a little bad for him. Like a pathetic lost puppy, I thought, just not as cute, or even as pitiful. Tom made it hard for people to sympathize with him-- he just had a way about him that turned them off, and he refused to change for anyone, even me.

I tried to be gentle this time around, avoiding my usual pitfalls with compassion. “Tom, maybe you’re just tired. Look, how about you rest, and let me take the wheel--"

“Why can’t you just believe me, Liz? Why do you always have to turn everything into some insignificant shit that doesn’t matter? Is it so hard to help someone else besides yourself?”

He sped up unintentionally as his anger mounted, and I was startled by the force of his rebuke against me. I got worried at that point, glancing back and forth between Tom’s furious eyes and the speedometer of the car, which was steadily rising. I felt a bit of panic as I saw no signs of him slowing down, grasping the side of the car as my hair slapped against my cheeks violently.

“Tom, please,” I pressed him, my eyes widening in fear. “Please, I’m sorry, Tom, I’m really sorry, so just slow down!”

Finally registering my plea, he gradually slowed till he reached about fifty miles per hour. He didn’t remain there, though, and after a tense five minutes, he came to a full stop at the side of the tree-shrouded road. Dead leaves of fall littered the streets, and I shivered from the chilly atmosphere-- both inside and outside the car.

A couple more minutes passed with him just staring at his wheel while I was wrapped up in the corner of the shotgun seat, awaiting something, anything from him. He turned to me, fixing his gaze right at my frazzled, wind-swept head. The heat of the moment was truly impassioned; I reddened under his keen eyes. I swallowed, un-pursing my lips.

“Tom...”

He stopped me before I could finish the thought, staring intently. With bated breath, I heard him speak, the surreal, muted locale only adding to his intensity.

“Now-- can I borrow your memory?”

I could only nod in consent. Yes, Tom-- you can use it. Yes, Tom-- take it, it’s all yours.

I never could say no to him, after all.

Author’s Note: Well, the whole trestle thing is based off of my own life-- there actually is a trestle where all the teens hang out near my house, and I have a lot of memories from it that I will keep with me forever. And that’s what I tried to make this story about, however short it was: memories, and their significance. This story was written off a wild tangent I had; the original starting line was from my favorite Korean TV drama series, “Winter Sonata,” and it was a memorable line (for me, at least) from the middle of episode fifteen. Well, that was random, but anywho...; I’m just crazy like that. Inspiration from every place imaginable! I think I watch too much, in the end. Please REVIEW!!!

Extra:

tres·tle P Pronunciation Key (trsl)
n.

A horizontal beam or bar held up by two pairs of divergent legs and used as a support.

A framework consisting of vertical, slanted supports and horizontal crosspieces supporting a bridge.