Everybody has a special kind of memory, she says.

"My best friend in high school always swooned when she smelled mothballs because her first big kiss was in her Great Aunt's house. My brother says he can remember traumatic events with vivid detail-especially the day his track coach died in a car accident"-

there were nine people there, and none of them were people I know. The tenth vehicle to show up at the intersection was the Good Humor truck. It was surreal

She told me about friends who always laughed when they heard 1999 on the radio, but they never told me why. Something about made up lyrics.

-and her memory?

She says she can recall the exact texture of things-the imprint of her first blanket-the number of stitches on the inside of her dad's letter jacket, all of those kinds of things.

I don't know if that is so, but I know this:

the first time we were together, when I unbuttoned the last of her eight buttons, her hands were at her side. Fingers rubbing the palms, storing data.