Ricki Nelson

I Will Learn to Remember Amethyst & You Ricki Nelson • Fiction

“My birthstone is a ethyst,” 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 • 1

She shook her head. “No,” she said, “it’s okay.” My lack of remembering often left her just “okay.”

She walked to the two-dollar movie bin and dug around. Many of the movies were random box- office flops long forgotten. I watched her from the jewelry counter as she rifled through. This was how we spent our Saturdays, wandering downtown in search of something to do. Today we decided to stop at every secondhand shop we found.

“Ooh!” she said. “Look at this one.”

She held up the worn DVD case. On the cover was a woman in classic eighteenth-century attire; the woman was caressing the long, slender beak of what resembled an ostrich-beaver hybrid stuffed in a suit.

“Beauty and the Beak,” I read. “Never heard of it, but it looks awful!”

“That’s the point,” she said, popping open the case and checking the disc for scratches. “It says his name is Mr. Quackers. Let’s get it.”

Her head rested in y lap, and I raked my fingers through her purple-streaked hair as we watched the film. It was as bad as we expected, yet amusing. We sat on the old yellow couch in her basement. It was stained with memories of drunken rambles, good sex, and low highs.

It was on that couch we first touched. Her hand, small and slender, wrapped around the back of my neck and pulled me close. It was after one of her infamous kickbacks that ended at 3 a.m. I was a stranger who lingered too long, and she was strange in her own way. That night she looked so innocent on her back, eyes closed, mouth open, breasts bare. The pads of her fingers were velvet and traced circles down my back as our bodies rocked in harmony.

I thought that night meant as little to her as it did to me. I didn’t know she stored pieces of me away into her memory in hopes

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that one day I would see her and we would end up on her yellow couch as more than a hot, naked mess. I didn’t know she wanted to give me her Saturdays. I didn’t know she prayed. I remembered her birthstone was amethyst.

A couple of days after our first hookup, she asked if I wanted to watch a movie at her place, and I replied, “Sure.” I thought the movie was code for hooking up on her yellow couch. When I arrived, piles of blankets lined the floor, popcorn filled the air, and a white sheet hung from the ceiling like a projection screen.

“What is this?” I asked. “Have you ever been to a drive-in?” she said. “Like from the fifties?”

“Yeah,” she said, “My granddad used to take me. I would stay with him over the summers, and we would go watch double features in the back of his pick-up.”

She rocked from one foot to the other. Her eyes trained on the matted shag carpet.

“Those are some of my favorite moments,” she said.

I look around at the elaborate setup and felt transported to a childhood I never knew: innocent, grandparent-filled summer nights with forts and PG movies.

We didn’t have sex that night. We watched the movie on the floor with our backs resting against her yellow couch. Our shoulders barely brushed.

At that moment, I broke my own rule, and I continued to go to movie nights at her place even if they didn’t end like I wanted.

The credits of Beauty and the Beak rolled on screen.

“Do you want to watch something else?” she asked, looking up at me with hooded eyelids.

She was beautiful. The fragments of her features were a work of art I could study for hours, and I wanted to examine every piece of her, learn her like the lyrics of my new favorite song.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “What for?” she asked. Why was I sorry? What was I doing?

These Fish Bite • 3

“For earlier,” I said. “Not remembering your birthstone.”

She sat up. Her hair was too big for her face, dwarfing her gentle features: dark, oval eyes; pink, full lips; and a round nose.

“That’s nothing to apologize for,” she said.

I wanted to think that she believed what she said, but I wasn’t sure.

“I know it bothers you,” I said. “That’s why I’m sorry.” She ran her finger down the bridge of my nose.

“It does and it doesn’t,” she said. “I know I want to mean more to you than I will. And it hurts, but—”

She stopped speaking. I wanted to watch her lips form more words, watch each syllable drop into her lap, but she stopped and smiled. Her smile was heavy, burdened by the bitter truth that I was never going to give her what she wanted, that I would never remember her birthstone or nail polish color or be satisfied just watching a movie on her ugly yellow couch. And that’s why I was sorry, because the only thing she wanted from me was something I would never give her.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. And I wanted to believe she meant it.

My mouth found her neck, and I made a trail of unapologetic kisses down to her collar bone, her chest, her stomach, her hips. She lay back on the yellow couch, and for a moment, I thought she might disappear between the cushions without a trace. And all that would be left was a broken piece of amethyst on an ugly yellow couch.

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