Last night, I lay in bed picking the snake-like, silvery memories of you from my mind with small tweezers. Every word exchanged, every lesson learned, every heartbeat felt, all came floating away.

I say I, and I mean she. Like when I say you, I mean he. But I am she, and you are he, so they/we fit these characters adequately.

I wondered how I would react to your face, once it had been cut from my recollection. I felt excitement at the prospect of passing you on the street, in blissful oblivion, as you became just another he.

But the one flaw in my plan was you. I was still wrapped around every membrane of yours, even as I cut you out of me, snake by snake. I would stay I, even as you became he.

How long would it take you to realise? Would you take advantage of it? Would you rebuild every memory for me? Would I do any better a second time round, with a complete absence of hindsight?

I kept wondering this until every snake had been cut out, and I didn’t know what I was wondering anymore.

I say I, and I mean she.