Page 17 of Molt

I grip the edge of the counter.

I can feel her behind me. Not touching.

Existing.

That’s enough.

My body knows her even when she doesn’t know herself. It always has.

“1897,” she says quietly.

I close my eyes. Don’t.

“Who was I?” She presses.

“Lenora.” I warn, as my hands tighten against the edge of the sink.

“You said they were me.”

“They were.”

“Different bodies?”

“Yes.”

“Different names?”

“Sometimes.”

“Then why does that jar say Lenora?”

Because that was the first time I called you that.

I don’t say it.

She comes closer and I squeeze my eyes shut with every step she takes. “Did you know me?”

“Yes.”

“Were we...” She stops.

I know the question. I wish she wouldn’t ask it.

“What?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“Together?”

I grip the counter harder.

“No.” I lie. The first of many.

I hear her exhale. “Okay.”

She believes me.

That hurts more than it should.

I turn around.