"That torpedo did not self-destruct. You heard it hit the hull. And I... was never here."

You will not remember me at all.  I am better than invisible--I am faceless.  I see the look in your eyes when you're forced to move around me.  You'd much rather pretend you went through me instead of having to alter your movement by exactly one iota; it's a non-verbal concession, no matter how small, that I exist.  You will not remember me once I'm out of earshot.

You will not remember me at all.  You cut off my 1987 Olds' with your shiny new SUV, doing 70 MPH on narrow roads while talking on your cellular phone and managing your three small children in the back seat.  When you're at home bitching to your spouse about all the inconsiderate jerks you had to deal with at work, you won't remember any of the people you were inconsiderate to yourself.

You will not remember me at all.  I see the look it in your eyes when you take my resume that it's not your job to actually hire anyone.  You are much more concerned with collecting as many resumes as possible, so that the corporation can justify your existence by making their big database of resumes even bigger.  You couldn't care less about my qualifications.  Your job is not getting jobs.  Your badge should say "Resume Depository," not "Human Resources Specialist."

You will not remember me at all.  I eat at your restaurant four times a week.  I see the brief spark in your eyes when I walk in the door that you do indeed recognize me, but you try to hide it.  It is much more efficient not to make small talk, you slow down business that way.  You will not remember me once I start eating somewhere else.

You will not remember me at all.  You shook my hand after a cookie-cutter speech designed to say nothing and offend no one.  You want me to vote for you in November, and yet you really couldn't care less about me or anyone else's agenda but your own.  You couldn't care less whether the babies you kiss grow up to be scientists or drug dealers.  You will not remember me once you move on to the next town, the next speech, the next group of undecided voters.

You will not remember me at all.  But that's okay, because I won't remember you either.

For half an hour every few months, I could be someone. I don't think you realised that, but sitting in the corridor waiting for you made me feel accepted. You would come. And even though I had to wait, several times, you always did. You didn't let me down.

I was lulled into a false sense of security. You told me you'd be there. And yes, you were. You were brilliant. I let you down, but you didn't realise it. By that point, you had too much going on in your head; it was overcrowded. I'd become a number long ago. If only I'd realised that before the last time we met.

We'd been close. We had to be; you weren't allowed to let me slip through the net. I watched you carefully to see if you treated me differently from the others. You did, but only a little. Nothing that anyone else could see.

I won't be left as debris in the river of your memory. I won't even be a pebble on its bank. You will wash me away, put me down as a mistake. I never should have happened. You did the best you could, in the circumstances. Which is why, in two years' time, you will not remember me at all.

But I'll remember you. Forever.

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