Forget

The notes of the song flew from her mouth as if pulled by a string. The lights so bright, she was blind. The stage was alive, and the theater was swallowing her whole. There was only one way she was going to come through this performance with her life and her soul intact:

Forgetting her, it makes me sick to be living from the memories of her, those moments that I had with her of happiness I know they do not go return

to me, almost hauntingly. Like a lingering spirit in need of release, I think I should find myself an exoricst.

I yelped Sheryl’s name from my bedroom like a warm lazy Hot Pocket. “What!?!?” she inquired from the kitchen sink’s dishes, annoyed as all hell. “Do you remember that exorcist’s number?!”

“How could I forget?” I said. “That exorcist burnt a hole in our carpet. Their stupid telephone number was 1-800-GET-OUTT. I’d be surprised if they were still in business.” “Call em!” barked Sheryl from the kitchen, unperturbed.

The appointment took place that Wednesday. Sheryl opened the door to a bulky man wearing dirty overalls and a bright red cape. He was carrying a large vacuum cleaner. “Where’s the beast, lady?” He asked. An hour, and even more carpet later, the problem was solved.