His eyes seemed familiar, at the back of my mind. They looked like eyes, I once knew all too well. The man standing in front of me seemed rather aggravated to be in my presence or perhaps I was analysing each and every movement, a bit too cautiously. The doctor's words flew past my head but I noted as he said — 'A person with this type of amnesia might remember how to make a phone call but they don't remember what they did earlier this morning or your wedding or your most profound memories. This is because declarative and non-declarative memories are thought to be stored in different areas of the brain.'

'Retrograde amnesia may resolve in less than 24 hours or may persist for a lifetime depending on the cause. You never really know. We can only hope for the best.'

''Yes, changes in personality may occur after the onset of amnesia.'

'I've referred her to a very good Psychotherapist. Psychotherapy may help to improve memories lost because of traumatic events. He will visit her at least once a week. Best it be in the comfort of your home for better improvement of her memory.'

'She will be all ready to go home by tomorrow.' Go home? Where is home? I looked around, confused...looked at my arm... there was a white wristband with words and dates written on them. 'Soraya Dos Santos' I felt someone's eyes on me. Out of instinct I looked up only to meet those of the distant stranger. He must have been my brother because I did not see any of my family but did I have a family? — but it couldn't be. My skin was brown and his almost pale. Perhaps one of us had to have been adopted. The doctor had asked me so many questions prior to this meeting, I couldn't recall anything except waking up to these blank hospital walls.

—

As told by my doctor, the man I had seen yesterday came to pick me up the very next day. He had not said a word to me. I didn't recall ever hearing his voice but it sounded like something that gave my body a reaction. A reaction, I did not quite feel comfortable with. He wore very modest. The car ride home was quiet, he concentrated on the road and nothing else. How was I meant to reside with someone so cold? Someone who had not even bothered to give a mere greeting.

"How far is this place?" I finally spoke up.

He stared blankly at me, giving me a cold stare that left me afraid to even mutter another word. "Quit playing stupid, the doctor isn't here anymore."

"Excuse me?"

"You really thought I'd buy into that idiotic act. 'Oh no poor me, I can not remember anything' you're mental an absolute maniac!"

Funny enough, these cold words did not seem to phase me as much as much as they should have. I was surprised but I kept my eyes down.Fumbling with my fingers, it dawned onto me that this wouldn't be an easy journey. How would I piece together my memory with someone who did not believe a word, I said.

In a low whisper, he muttered. "...you need to let me go. This is becoming an unhealthy obsession. Please Soraya! It's time we both move on."

"I don't understand—"

"I don't love you anymore! This was a mistake and thank goodness there is no child to bear fruits of this chaos."

"I understand, that is perfectly fine with me but first please tell me who are you to me?"

He laughed, almost seemed as if he did not believe a word I said. Suddenly the car came to a halt. Making me aware of our surroundings, a nice suburban neighbourhood. A beautiful white Parisienne-style villa. It was so stunning, I couldn't imagine what my life had been like before this accident.

"You know what Soraya play these games by yourself. Frankly we're too grown for this nonsense. When you decide you want to come to terms with our situation. My lawyer will be waiting for your call." With that the opening and slamming of the car door followed. Leaving me uncertain of my thoughts, feelings and everything around me.

Trying to make out what that meant, the car door was suddenly opened. I was greeted by a woman who looked to be in her late forties. She hugged me tightly. "Oh Soraya, I'm so glad you're well. We were all so worried about you."

"Thank you eh?" I tried to recall.

"Florence." She smiled fondly before leading me into the house. Still stunned, I noticed the decor seemed almost minimalistic. A picture frame caught my eye, it was a wedding photo of the man who had brought me here. He seemed very happy so was his wife.

"That was five years ago..." Florence muttered from behind me. "You were both very very happy."

"This is me?" I asked pointing at the bride almost in disbelief. The bride wore a contagious smile. Her natural Afro styled with crystal beads all around. "I—I am married?" I asked, it was more to myself than anyone else. I didn't recall any events of it, nor did I recall the day that image was taken. My tears threatened to water for some reason, I did not understand. There were other images of the couple, I skimmed past them as Florence showed me around. Clearly I had such a beautiful life but for some reason a feeling of sadness overwhelmed me.

They were five rooms in this stunning villa. I was so glad when the tour came to an end and she showed me my room. I went to lay down on the white linen sheets, they smelt like lavender. I loved that. "This has been your room for the past seven months."

"Oh? Did we recently move in?" I asked obliviously.

"No no Mrs Dos Santos, you uhm—" She was interrupted by the man said to be my husband.

"You prefer your own space. You decided you wanted to reside in a different room so I reckon you should know why Soraya?"

I didn't know why?

"Do not tell her anything Florence since she wants to play dumb? She will figure herself out. I will not nor will you entertain her mediocre attempt to fooling around. I mean for goodness sake who suddenly loses their memory when—"

"When what?" I spoke up. I was trying to understand as well. He looked at me, his eyes void running his fingers through his evidently dark hair. He cleared his throat. "You know very well."

Florence stood there not sure if she should stay or leave. Not sure if she should mutter a word or stay silent. I looked around my room, very modern and simple. I liked it.

"I don't, that's why I'm asking. I'm trying to understand what happened? Why am I here? Why would I marry someone as rude as you've been to me? Why would I willingly give into being life partners with someone like you?"

"Someone like me?" He chuckled. "You — bondade graciosa! (goodness gracious)" He spoke in a foreign language massaging his temple almost in disbelief. Florence then excused herself. Closing the door behind us, I did not want to be left alone with him. His height, I already found intimidating. His frustration did not go unnoticed.

"Please repeat that? I did not catch that." I asked politely. Looking at me, he laughed. "Are you purposely trying to act out how we met—"

I stared at him confused.

"No, I'm only trying to understand what you said to me. You speak Spanish?" I asked.

"Portuguese, you know that."

"No, I don't." I shrugged.

"You always told me that was what initially attracted me to you." His voice softened.

I gave him a smile. "Clearly a mistake, if we make each other so miserable but I insist, I will not get in your way." thinking about it more, I spoke once more. "As long we speak English that way, I can understand and try to gain my memory quicker."

Suddenly there was a knock on the door. It was Florence. With a warm smile she asked "Would you like some tea?"

I smiled.

"Yes, please that would be lovely. Thank you!"

"Soraya..." he muttered under his breath as if something was wrong. "You never ever drink tea."

I gasped. "Oh?! Do I have some sort of allergy?"

"So you really lost it?"

I only stared at him confused.

"What do I usually prefer?"

"Coffee, black no sugar." He replied.

"No sugar?" I asked, a bit surprised. "That's a bit too harsh. Suppose, I will have a bit of sugar." I smiled at them both.

"And French toast." My supposed husband added.

"That sounds delicious."

"You hate French toast, you told me you had too much of it as a kid."

"Oh..." I did not know what to say anymore. He whispered something to Florence then she left. I did not know how I felt being alone with a stranger, felt rather uncomfortable.

"If I'm married, where is my ring?"

He let out a hearty laugh. "Uh you threw it... at—" there was a sudden pause. "I will look for it."

"Thank you." I gave him a warm smile.

—

Lunch wasn't too bad, I learnt that his name is Lorenzo Dos Santos. He was into real estate and had started from the ground bottom till where he was now.

"I came to San Francisco from Portugal chasing this big dream of mine to make it as a real estate tycoon. My visa was almost about to expire and we got married... in Las Vegas eight years ago. You offered, I was weary about it but realised it was best I take the opportunity. I'd receive better opportunities as a citizen."

"That's nice, so you made it then?"

"I'd like to think so." He smiled, this time it seemed genuine not forced or fabricated.

"I'm very happy for you. Suppose everything makes sense now. That is why we sleep in different rooms. Regardless, I'm glad I could help in any way that I could."

His green orbs flickered from my eyes to his plate. I continued to look around and take in the beautiful decor and interior around me.

"Do I have a boyfriend?" I asked curiously.

"What?!"

"Florence mentioned earlier that you usually have a breakfast with your girlfriend. So I could only assume that we have different relationships outside of this fake marriage." I laughed, a bit. "Which I totally understand, interracial relationships in America—"

He cursed under his breath before looking at me almost curious. Dropping his utensils, he sat back watching me.

"I'm sorry if I overwhelmed you. I'm just trying to make out what life was like before this accident."

He only nodded. I realised he was a man of very little words. "You're Soraya, twenty-nine years of age, you were a journalist at WIRED magazine. You're my wife. You do not have a boyfriend, I was your first boyfriend. You told me, your only focus was to get out of the hood and make a better life for yourself and your family nothing not even a man could distract you from that goal. You worked so hard to get to Stanford and that's where we met. I was a barista at a Starbucks around the corner from your university. You drink coffee like a maniac." He smiled warmly as if these memories meant something to him. I had assumed he hated me from the word to go. "That's what we had in common. We both wanted to make something out of our poor backgrounds. You have a younger sister but she lives out of state, so does the rest of your family. You're from Philadelphia but came to San Francisco to study at Stanford University."

"Feels slightly overwhelming hearing about myself from someone else's point of view." I told him. He nodded in agreement.

"Clearly, I am striving except my romantic aspect of life. The fact that I have a fake husband is even beyond me."

His hand suddenly reached out from across the table. "I haven't been your fake husband for the past five years. We... have done things that only husband and wife engage in, we've had a honeymoon, we have properties together— our real wedding was five years ago. Our court marriage of convenience was eight years ago."

I was stuck in a web of confusion. At one point he was telling me, how much he despises and that I should let him go. Now he was holding my hand and assuring me that this marriage was real. I could not imagine it. He was clearly a good looking man and I did not want to stand in the way of him finding love and being happy.

"Ohhh..." I pulled my hand back away from his. He was still wearing his wedding ring. In my head the only explanation that made sense was this man had used me. I helped him get his green card and like Florence had mentioned he had another woman who came around very often. It was time to divorce me since I had already played my part. Him yelling at me in the car suddenly made sense. I did not remember much but in this moment, I knew my past self had failed at this love thing. Perhaps old me was too open minded and thought I could force him to stay by refusing to sign the papers.

"I will sign the papers." I told him.

"Soraya?" He seemed befuddled.

"I don't know what happened between us but I can clearly tell you're very unhappy and want a way out of this. In the car you mentioned that, I should give a call to your lawyers when I'm ready. Correct me if I'm wrong but that would mean divorce papers. I'd be more than happy to grant you your freedom. Clearly this wasn't a healthy marriage."

He seemed utterly shocked, almost emotionless.

"I appreciate that but, my lawyer said we need to wait for you to get your memory back.We both need to have the relevant mental capacity to sign legally binding documents. So, if the divorce is agreed to by both parties, we can not do anything about it. Apparently the spouse with amnesia lacks mental capacity, the other spouse cannot just take advantage and sign the papers."

"I will try my best to remember. It's clearly been a horrid eight years. We can not waste anymore time. Of course, I will need your help to remember. Once I do, I promise I will sign everything and let you go like you requested earlier."

"I'd really appreciate that." He told me.

I could only smile in return. He stared at me, with worry. It made me wonder, had I really been deadset on not signing the papers.

"It wasn't always horrible—" he told me but I only shook my head.

"I'm sure it wasn't Lorenzo and you were right I can only be thankful there was no child to get hurt in this mess of ours." I chuckled but he didn't. I thought my agreeing to sign would make him happy but he seemed distraught.

"You really do not remember anything?" He asked softly. "Not even our happiest moments—"

Suddenly, I felt awful.

"I promise, if I don't get my memory soon enough. You can just leave. We will find a way to live separately even with binding marriage papers between us. I'd feel awful if I didn't heal fast enough and you had to wait with me."

There was silence. I understood it was needed. I excused myself from the table. I couldn't wait to browse through our home and perhaps find pieces of myself that I had lost in the process.

-

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