The Pages We Forget by Anthony Lamarr

Keith whispered in her ear as she recreated the melody of the redbirds. “Some pages are best left forgotten,” she repeated. Then she sang the words. “Some page. Some pages are best left forgotten.” There was something lyrical in his words. “Some pages are best forgotten.” She improvised the words, replaying them like a broken record in the recesses of her mind. “Some pages we forget.”
    June stared out of the window as she continued playing the piano. “The pages we forget,” she improvised. “The pages we forget.” She stopped singing and listened attentively to the tune she was playing on Joy. There’s a song here, she thought. It’s an old, familiar song that, upon hearing years later, you can sing every word and articulate each note like you heard it the day before.
    â€œYesterday’s songs, some live forever,” she sang in a falsetto voice that flowed deliberately like molasses. “Their rhythm and their rhyme, still playing melodies in our minds.” The lyrics seemed to come out of nowhere. “A story behind each, of a life.” She paused. “Of a love we both promised to keep.”
    June had no idea Alex was standing outside the door listening. He’d woken up and realized his arms and bed were empty. Since it was too early for her to be out at the dock, he knew where to find her. But he didn’t expect to come down to the parlor and hear her composing this yearning ode.
    â€œSo many, many years, of lonely nights filled with tears,” she sang.
    Alex reached for the doorknob but suddenly pulled back. He needed to hear more. Maybe, he figured, it was only a song that popped up in her head and nothing more.
    She toyed with a line of lyrics that would become part of the song’s chorus. “In our eyes, there’s a story,” she sang, pausing for a moment as she shook her head. “They tell stories of what?” she asked herself. “They tell stories about our love. No. That doesn’t sound right. They tell stories of how we used to be.”
    June played the notes of the chorus and sang, “Our eyes tell stories of how we used to be.” She paused again. “There are memories locked inside. Memories locked inside. Memories locked inside never to be free.” She started at the beginning of the chorus. “Our eyes tell stories,” she sang, “of how we used to be. Memories locked inside, never to be free.”
    June wasn’t a songwriter, he was. As Alex listened, he slowly came to the realization that what he was listening to wasn’t simply a song. It was too passionate. Too heartfelt. Too true. The lyrics and the music were coming from somewhere deeply personal and private.
    â€œAnd now, after all we’ve shared,” June continued singing. “We, we, we pass like we’ve never met. Neither wanting to remember, the pages we forget.”
    Alex couldn’t stand to hear anymore, so he turned and walked upstairs, climbed back into bed, and tried to force himself to sleep. Two hours later, as soon as he’d dozed off, he heard June come into the room. He pretended to be asleep but lay watching as she walked into the closet and got dressed. She turned off the closet light and tiptoed out the room. When Alex heard the bedroom door close, he rolled over and looked at the alarm clock, which signaled morning was approaching. He turned the clock off and pulled the covers over his head.
    The next sound Alex heard was their housekeeper knocking on the bedroom door. “Alex! Alex!” Mrs. Freda cracked the door and said, “Bernard’s here and he seems a little anxious.”
    â€œI’ll be down in a minute,” he replied as he crawled out of bed. Mrs. Freda was about to close the door when he called, “Mrs. Freda!”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œWhere’s Junie?”
    â€œShe’s in the studio.”
    â€œIn the