I Will Learn to Remember Amethyst & You Ricki Nelson • Fiction
“My birthstone is amethyst,” she said, tapping the glass case. “Did you know that?” She looked up at me, and I could tell how badly she wanted me to know her birthstone was amethyst. But I didn’t, or at least I couldn’t remember. Lying was never my strong suit, and as I opened my mouth she shrugged. “It’s okay,” she said. Her voice sounded small, and I felt small for not being a better liar. She chipped away at her already chipping nail polish: a deep plum that looked like dried jam. I was sure if she sucked on the hills of her nail beds it would have come off the same and tasted twice as sweet. Her hair was streaked with a shade of purple I didn’t remember: orchid or maybe boysenberry. And I didn’t want to ask because that was another detail I couldn’t take the time to store away into my long term memory. I knew if I asked, her voice would disappear. It would wither away like a rose caught in the concrete. “Do you want it?” I asked. I offered, hoping that my cheap gesture to buy her pawn store jewelry would cleanse me of my guilt. It didn’t. It never did.
These Fish Bite •
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