The Truth Is...

Stream(s) of consciousness from a scattered week.

The woman with the blonde hair dashes across the street and I recognize her immediately. Where the hell do I know her from? School, maybe. A long-ago job? It bothers me for a week, and still, I cannot place her.

This keeps happening. My brain discards thirty percent of a memory but keeps just enough to drive me batty. “I’ve never forgotten a face!” I thi…