A Date to Forget

"This has been a magical evening, honestly.” Gabriela ran a finger absently around the rim of her wine glass; the dim lamplight gathered and skittered behind her hand as it twirled. Her eyes shut and opened slowly, deliberately, giving way to warm brown irises that played with the gentle light.

"Like our first date. Remember?" Erika leaned back in her seat easily, smirking. Her stick-thin figure etched sunken angles into the sleek black of her sleeveless, shapeless blouse.

"Mm, I do. At this very restaurant. Rare that a place in Portland lasts this long."

"Rare that a relationship lasts this long. Seven years is a feat."

"I'll drink to that," chuckled Gabriela, taking a sip of her wine.

Erika leaned forward, perching her chin on her folded hands.

"What do you remember from our first date? Specifically, I mean." Her black eyes glinted when she wanted something; they glinted now.

Gabriela furrowed her brow, smiling. "Is this a trick?"

"I like hearing you describe it.” Erika's burgundy lip curled, her head dipping to the side, asymmetrical bob draping over her shoulder. “You light up when you talk about happy memories." Her fingers twisted at the too-many platinum rings on either hand: fiddling with jewelry, her one tic. Gabriela grinned back at her.

"I remember...running late, and you commenting on it; and me threatening to leave. I remember the floral-print jacket I wore, the Pepto-Bismol pink shoes. You looked as stunning as you always do."

"Flattery, as always, will get you everywhere."

"And I remember learning that as well. Let's see. I remember Quang serving us and, frankly, being a busybody as much as a busboy; I remember you telling him off—'we'll have the Merlot.' I remember you looking pained as I struggled with the menu. That was the first time you took pity on me and asked me if I wanted you to order for me, and the first time I said, 'god yes, please.' I remember the snails being more delicious than they had any right to be; I tried a lot of things for the first time that night."

"You certainly did," Erika cut in, taking a swig of her wine.

"Oh my god, you're awful!" jibed Gabriela, grinning wide in spite of herself. "Anyway. The dumplings...chicken? No, duck. And the French green phởnion soup! You and I agreed that the pun was incredible in a bad way but the soup was incredible in a good way."

"A 'phở pas' indeed."

"And I remember threatening to leave yet again when you made that wretched joke. The entree was...inscrutable, frankly, but one of the most heavenly things I've ever tasted. Just the right amount of delicate crunch, savory, sweet, aromatic. I made an offhand comment about my waistline, and you said that you'd...you'd rather...no wait, no...that 'there was only room for one Tilda Swinton at the table.'"

"And I stand by that," Erika declared, fluttering her fingers along her silvery collar. "I like my ladies soft and sweet."

"So I've determined. And for dessert…."

"All right, ladies," sang their server as he glided toward them, "the pièce de résistance, and the final course of the evening: bánh bò, smothered in orange crème Chantilly, drizzled with a chocolate-Thai basil reduction." He placed the plates before the two of them. "I'll let you two dig in. If you find yourself needing anything else, feel free to flag me down."

"Thank you, Quang," said Erika. "That'll be all for now."

Gabriela looked down at the perfectly-plated sponge cakes before her, then up at Erika, and all around her, taking in the ambiance of L'Héritage Indochine. The high ceilings, the marble columns carved into relief portraits, the bronze-brushed walls. She gazed at herself, at Erika, in the massive mirror on the wall, and then back across the table.

"This is our first date," she half-whispered. "It's all here. The food, the Merlot, our favorite table." She paused for a moment to take in the gentle, chaotic patter against the windows. "It's even raining outside."

"It's March in Oregon. It was about fifty-fifty on the weather."

"Erika, how did—"

"I'm a woman who gets things done, Gabs. Seven years together is no small potatoes; I wanted to show you how important this is to me, how important you are to me. Besides" —she added, flicking her wrist loftily, silver cuff jangling— "I had time to prepare."

"Preparation is one thing, babe. This is...extraordinarily elaborate. This is Scare-ika shit."

"Be that as it may," Erika cooed, stretching out her hand across the table, "is there a degree of thoroughness not warranted by a seven-year anniversary with the most wonderful woman I've ever known?"

Gabriela unfolded her arms slowly, a smile creeping steadily across her rose-painted lips. She looked down at Erika's hand: the shimmering, close-cropped, jet-black nails; the elegantly long, upturned fingers; the tan palm crosshatched by fine lines—how did everything about her manage to look pretty, even the lines of her hands?

"I suppose," she began, her hand reaching out and clasping Erika's; golden fingers intertwined with tawny, fuchsia nails mingled with black. "When you put it like that...all this isn't horrifically over-the-top. Just...a little shocking at first." Erika winked, unwound their fingers, and squeezed Gabriela's hand.

"Speaking of surprising—” Erika held up a finger, the platinum of her many rings catching what little light shone from the miniature chandelier overhead "—I have two surprises to share with you."

"Oh?" She raised her eyebrows as Erika retrieved her charcoal-colored bag. Gabriela attempted to stifle her excitement; the traces of a grin betrayed her. "That's double what I got on my birthday."

"You're not counting—?"

"No. No, I'm not counting that, and I'm especially not counting that in public. Some of us have some discretion, Ms. Gladwell."

"Okay, okay. Safe-for-work only, got it."

"What workplace are you talking about? You're even more poorly behaved when you're at the office."

Erika half-batted, half-slammed her eyelids shut, once, twice, thrice: warning, warning, warning. "Do you want the surprise or not?"

Gabriela looked back at her blankly before sinking a fork into her bánh bò.

"Guess it depends on how sumptuous this rice cake is. The second time, anyway." She sliced off a bite and tossed it swiftly onto her tongue. She moaned, eyes closed as she chewed, holding up a hand to cover her mouth; and then stared at Erika, who bit her lip and drummed the table with her fingertips.

"Don't you dare."

"Can you not see how hard I'm trying?" Erika laughed, throwing up her hands like a revivalist preacher. "Is my restraint not perfectly evident?"

"You're much better than you used to be, that's for sure. But enough razzin'. Show me whatchya got, babe."

"All right. Tell me, Gabs," began Erika, her words velvety, "what's something you've wanted to do for years but never found time for?"

Gabriela's brow furrowed. "It's not a painting class for two, is it?"

"No, not after the couples' pottery debacle. Think big."

"I mean," muttered Gabriela, looking up, "I guess there's the Bangkok trip, but….”

A huge grin broke Erika's steely composure.

"You didn't," Gabriela barely exhaled. "You….No, no way."

Erika pulled from her purse a gold-embossed vellum dossier, waving it with vim. Wordlessly, Gabriela held out her hand and nodded, almost convulsing; Erika obliged and took a victorious forkful of her sponge cake. Gabriela slowly undid the clasp atop the folder and removed with trembling hands the documents detailing her itinerary: a trek through Thailand, Cambodia, Laos, Vietnam, Singapore, Malaysia, Indonesia; four weeks in total. The cities, the food, the temples, the festivals—it was all there.

"Babe, I…I never….You really….I...wow." She held a fist to her mouth to stifle a sob; and then narrowed her eyes.

"Erika, the reservations are for one. What—"

"That's the second surprise. This part's always the worst."

With a hundred flourishes, Erika ran dexterous, dancing fingers over every gleaming hoop earring, bangle, necklace, ring, wristwatch. Gabriela felt herself…not levitating, but not seated, either; and yet both at once. The table's edges wavered, half-there, half-not, as every object around them lost its opacity, glimmering, blinking. Erika herself remained as stolid as ever, but her features began to shift. Her blunt hair retreated into wisps, revealing bumps and spikes protruding from about her tapered skull. Her blouse wavered as though tousled by a breeze, and through the thin, fluctuating black shone a metallic azure, clinging to her skin and flowing with rivulets of light. Her skin itself maintained its brown hue, but swam with pearlescent cerulean, citron, chartreuse. Limbs, as well as fingers, ears, chin, grew even longer, thinner, more angular. Most striking, though, were her eyes: astride her now-flattened nose, the oval shape elongated into her temples, the shades of the iris and sclera inverted so that Erika gazed out from a circle of sheer white, edged by jet-black. Where an eyebrow would be, there stared four miniature copies, blinking at random.

Gabriela stared, wide-eyed, mouth agape. She felt a scream escape her lungs, but only heard the faintest of echoes ring out.

Erika spoke with a dozen voices simultaneously. "The dimensional shift is rough at first, I know. You're handling it well."

She leaned forward with one pair of arms, a second remaining on her lap. "I owe you some explanations, Gabs—a lot of explanations. But I can only give you so much. You once said that I ‘lived on borrowed time'; you never did realize the truth in that."

"What….Magic…? Does...make...witch?" The reverberations of sound all around them swallowed most of Gabriela’s words.

Erika sighed, the sound crinkling in on itself. "Humans call magic or witchcraft or paranormal that which they lack sufficient means to explain; terrible irony that humanity fails to understand the potential locked away within your own minds. Terrible for your kind, fortunate for mine.

"If it makes things easier, in a sense, I suppose I am a witch, a succubus, a ghost; and if I'm a witch, the Merlot may well be my brew."

"Erika...did...you...love...me?" The last word came as nothing more than a silent movement of lips.

Erika's eyes looked in different directions, in every direction, and back at Gabriela.

"As much as something like me can. I cared for you, enjoyed my time with you; and in my own way, yes, Gabs. I did love you—I do love you. But I can't live off love alone. My kind consumes memories as your kind consumes food; I need your memories of me in order to stay alive."

Erika extended those hands whose touch Gabriela both knew and did not know; she flinched as they closed in. Erika bowed her head, a motion within a motion.

"Gabs…."

"Don't," blurted Gabriela, hot tears shaking down her cheeks. "Don't...me...name."

Erika nodded.

"Gabriela then. I'm going to adjust the settings on your locket. You won't remember me—no one will. Quang will tell you that your date left in a hurry, just another Portland flake, and you'll go on with your life. Human minds are flexible; you'll fill in the gaps."

Gabriela stared at her, hollow, fiery. "Why?"

Erika's eyes flashed hypnotically, the black and white whirring back and forth with dizzying speed. "It had to be love. It had to be you."

Gabriela looked about her apartment, taking in the golden afternoon light. The botanical-patterned sofa, the too-small sink, the cozy pillow-top queen who'd stayed by her side through the past seven years. She rubbed her temple with one hand, clutched her platinum locket with the other: pre-flight jitters, nothing an Excedrin couldn't help. Pulling her travel dossier and her phone from her purse one last time, she checked the date on either: April 12.

"I’m so glad I did this for me.” Grinning wide, she sauntered through the front door, luggage in tow. “Bangkok, here I come."