Page 149 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

I leaned back against the opposite counter, shoving my hands in my pockets. “I learned how to make it.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You learned it? How? I’ve begged them for the recipe for years. It’s a ‘family secret.’ They didn’t even hint at the spices.”

“I didn’t ask them for the recipe,” I said, crossing my arms. “Asking would have gotten me nowhere. So I went there. Every day for lunch for three months. I ordered the soup. Every single time. I’d take a spoonful, hold it on my tongue, and try to isolate each component. The bright, citrusy top note… was it kaffir lime leaf or lemongrass? The warmth underneath… ginger, or galangal? There was a depth, an umami backbone—was it just chicken, or was there a whisper of dried shrimp or mushroom powder?

“I’d make notes on my phone. Then I’d go home and research each possibility. I bought every ingredient. I’d cook a batch, taste it against the memory of the day’s sample. Fail. Adjust. Try again.” I remembered the countless pots poured down the sink, the apartment perpetually smelling of experimental broth. “It took me… thirty-seven attempts, I think? But on the thirty-eighth, I took a bite, and I knew. I’d cracked it.”

Her eyes widened, shock leaving her momentarily unable to respond. Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again, searching for something she could say. Nothing came. She stared at me, stunned, until one question finally slipped out.

“Why?”

My brows drew together. The question made no sense.

“Because you needed it,” I said, the answer so obvious it felt foolish to say aloud. “Because you wanted it.”

She fell silent, just staring at me as if she were seeing a completely different person. Then, without another word, she turned back to the soup and continued eating. I took a glass, filled it and set it beside her.

She muttered a thanks, took a sip, and immediately recoiled. Her face twisted, and she slammed the glass onto the table. “What the hell is that?” She stared at the murky liquid with open disgust, keeping her distance from it.

“Boiled water, herbs, strained. It’s medicinal. You need to drink it.” I nudged the glass closer.

She leaned back, arms folded across her chest. Her eyes were sharp and clear now, fixed on mine. Searching. Dissecting.

I shifted my weight under the scrutiny. “It’s good for your health.”

She didn’t reply. She remained still, studying the situation while her mind worked through the possibilities. A single, slow nod followed, as though she had finally reached a decision. When she spoke, her tone had softened, carrying a trace of hesitation.

“What was our marriage like? Before the… work crisis part. What was a regular day?”

My mouth went dry. Time seemed to lose its rhythm, everything around me fading beneath the weight of her question. My lungs refused to draw another breath. She was really asking. She wanted to know about the beginning, before the fights, before the distance, before everything fell apart.

I cleared my throat, the memory rising like a warm, aching tide. “A regular day?” My lips curved into a soft, sad smile. “It was… simple. Beautifully mundane.”

I looked back at her, wanting her to see the truth of it. “We’d wake up together. Not always at the same time, but whoever woke first would wait. We took turns with breakfast—you were better at eggs, I was better at pancakes. Sometimes we’d argue half-heartedly over who had to make coffee.” A soft laugh escaped me. “Then we’d go to work. But… we didn’t really leave each other. Our phones would ping all day. Not about important things. A weird cloud shape. A terrible sandwich. A meme. A ‘this meeting is killing me’ followed by a ‘hang in there.’ Just… constant, quiet contact. A thread connecting us across the city.”

I softened my tone, letting the memory take shape in the quiet kitchen. “We’d come home. The best part. We’d cook dinner together. There was always music. We’d eat at the island, not the table, because we were too impatient. And then… we’d go out to the balcony. Even in winter, with blankets. We’d just… sit. Sometimes talk. Sometimes not. Just… be there. Together. Until it was time to go to bed and do it all over again.”

What I wouldn’t give. What I wouldn’t burn. What I wouldn’t trade to have just one of those utterly ordinary, perfectly mundane days back.

I continued, warmth creeping into me as I brought those early days back to life, wanting her to see the color in everything we had built. “Our dates… they were never just dinners. They were events. You’d plan them. You loved the research—finding the weirdest, most immersive activity you could. We frequented our regular spots, but once a month was for the new thing. The absurd thing. The ‘let’s-see-if-we-survive’ thing. An axe-throwing bar. A midnight screening of a terrible movie with live riffing.”

A fond smile touched my lips. “One time, it was a cryptic treasure hunt across the city you designed, clues based on inside jokes. We got hopelessly lost and ended up eating hot dogs on a curb at 2 AM, laughing so hard we cried.”

The warmth of the memory lingered, then cooled as my mind chased the timeline. “The last new thing we picked was… rock climbing. An indoor bouldering gym. You showed me the website, all these colorful holds on a wall. You were so excited.”

My brows drew together, the pleasant narrative hitting a snag. I tried to pull the memory forward, to picture us in harnesses, chalk on our hands, her triumphant smile from the top of a wall.

The image wouldn’t come.

Because it never happened.

But we’d talked about it. We’d chosen a date, hadn’t we? I sifted backward through time, through the fog of busyness, searching for the last real date.

And I found it.

Not rock climbing. Laser tag. A last-minute, mid-week game because Alessia had said we needed to “shoot some stress.” I’d gone, but my mind had been a million miles away. Running numbers. Rehearsing a pitch. Worrying about a contract clause. My body was in the arena, but I was in a boardroom. We’d been disqualified early because I’d kept standing still, a perfect target, lost in thought.

On the drive home, she’d been quiet, then pointed to a billboard for a rock-climbing gym. “That could be fun for next month.”