Rewrites

For our first date, I took Nancy starsurfing.

Arm in arm, we walked across the surface of the sun. It glowed underfoot, turning her cheeks to warm apples. I imagined our shadows covering North America.

But something isn’t right.

I tut, remove my brainjack. I consider adjusting her hair, or her smile. But that’s not really the problem.

The problem is that I never took her starsurfing. I took her to a cheap club, where the thumping bass meant I didn’t have to make conversation.

And no matter how detailed I make these memories, I know they’ll never be real.