Free The Memory Key by Liana Liu Page B

I’m late, but when I apologize for being late, Raul only smiles and says, “You’re not late, I’m early.”
    Although this is a blatant untruth, it makes me feel a little less wriggly.
    We small-talk over our days: I tell him about visiting Aunt Austin, he tells me about the peanut-butter-banana-pickle-jelly sandwich he made and ate for lunch. “Driving back from Grand Gardens, I felt so sick,” he says.
    â€œPeanut-butter-banana-pickle-jelly? Of course you felt sick. You deserved it.” I giggle, but he doesn’t. I worry I’ve offended him so I quickly change the subject: “Grand Gardens—is that your retirement home? Is it near Grand Village?”
    When he nods I tell him that’s where my aunt lives. I ask after Ms. Pearl.
    â€œShe’s good. Did you know she has two gentlemen friends?”
    â€œReally? That’s amazing!”
    â€œYeah. Neither seems to mind that she has another fellow. In fact, the two of them are also friends. Though it might be because both of their memories are shot.”
    â€œThey don’t have keys either? Aren’t they worried about Vergets disease? Is no one worried about Vergets?” I speak much too loudly; I feel people glancing in our direction. But it had to be said. It’s what my mother would have said.
    â€œWell, Earl used to have a key, but had to get it removed because his body rejected it. He’d had it for decades, then one day he was struck by this incredible pain, the worst pain in his life, he told me. They had to cut the key out of his brain. Now he has this gnarly scar on the back of his head.”
    The back of my own head twitches. I ignore it. “That’s awful.”
    â€œYeah. Now he can’t remember much of anything because he’d been so reliant on his key. It’s really sad,” says Raul.
    â€œI can’t believe how many people at your retirement home don’t have keys.”
    â€œWell, that’s probably why they’re there.”
    â€œOh. Right,” I say.
    â€œThere’s even one resident who had his key purposefully removed, even though there was nothing wrong with it.”
    â€œThat’s weird. Why’d he do that?”
    â€œHe said he didn’t want to remember. His family—wife and kids—was killed when that extremist group, the Citizen Army, hijacked the plane they were on. He never got over it. I mean,how could anyone get over that?”
    And I say nothing more, partly because the waiter comes with our food, partly because there is nothing more to say.
    Raul pays the bill—he insists. He smiles his nice smile and tells me that I can get it next time. I agree, feeling a flattered flutter at his talk of next time . We walk outside to where my bicycle is chained to a lamppost. As I unlock my bike, Raul tells me about his activist group that makes soup for the homeless. He invites me to come to their next meeting.
    â€œSounds fun,” I say.
    â€œGreat.” He stands close to me. He leans closer.
    â€œThanks again,” I say.
    â€œYou’re welcome again.” His head tilts forward and his fingers take hold of my shoulder. Then he leans even closer.
    And before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve stepped away and said good-bye and jumped on my bike, and now I’m pedaling farther and farther away, feeling guilty and embarrassed. And relieved.
    It’s not that I don’t like Raul.
    It’s not that I would mind if he kissed me.
    So what’s my problem?
    I don’t know. My problem is that I don’t know.
    The night air is cool on my hot face. When I’m stopped by a red light, I look up at the unusual billboard on the side of a building, unusual because it’s a photograph with no print, no indication of what’s being advertised; there’s just an attractiveman and woman standing arm in attractive arm. I squint through the darkness and see that on the next corner,