What's-Her-Face

As days push me through this city, What's-Her-Face becomes more and more immemorable. Yesterday on the bus, a woman's features looked so similar that for a moment I was filled with a feeling; two days before that, another woman had hips that made me wonder about a face I could not see. Everywhere, I'm seeing her, her shape changing into a paranoid metamorph of features.

What's-Her-Face contacted me a few days ago. A formality, a letter from my previous insurance company in Alberta sent to an old address. It being now-accidentally-opened, she's unable to put it in the mail to my new address. But questions arise, those of her intentions. Rather than contact me at all, why not put it in another envelope and re-mail it, with whatever apologies are deemed necessary? Why not destroy the letter in its entirety and forget the whole measure? Why send me a message on Facebook, a medium in which she went out of her way to distance herself from me?

The thing about Facebook messages is that following contact with someone, you are able to snoop on them for a month. Now that she sent me a message, I could - and have not, will not - look at her profile. If I were to reply, she could look at mine. It seems so contrary to her constantly calculated habits for this to be accidental; she could have sent me an e-mail more easily.

Anyway. This is all the weight of her that's been on my mind this entire year. I am forgetting and she is forgotten.