The entire day, I kept an eye on Dorian. When he sat down for breakfast in his hoodie after his run. When he went to the garage with Mary to fix the car. When he entered the gym and got out in his workout clothes. When he went to his art gallery and painted for two hours, and left with a smudge of paint on his forehead. When he tended to his plants in the garden. And even when he read a book after dinner by the window of the museum.
I watched him, wishing and waiting for any of his words or any of his movements to shake up my dormant memories. But all to no avail. I wasn’t sure why I expected anything, to be honest, since I’d been around him for weeks and not once had he ever triggered a memory. It was only that one time he felt familiar—back when I first met him in the grocery store as a
