Myosotis

People find it strange that I still use Facebook. Strictly speaking I'm too young for it, but when I was at university all of the societies still primarily used it, societies being less susceptible to change than individual people. I stayed because I like to keep tabs on people; it's always fun to play 'where-are-they-now?' with the most popular members of the campanology club, the answer usually being 'exactly-where-you-left-them.' Most of the people I actually knew had migrated to less archaic social media, but their parents remained. It was better that way. I got to hear about weddings and any acrimonious divorces, without having to know what Charles Lee had for Wednesday lunch, and it always amused me whenever Charles senior mistook Facebook for the Bing search bar.

It was on Facebook that I'd learned about Peter's wedding, and more importantly about his wife. She was a dancer, which was evident from her new father-in-law's all-caps ramblings and his amateur video of the first dance. More importantly, she was extremely hot, a fact visible in each photo of her, and spelled out almost verbatim in block capitals. I made up my mind to pay Peter a visit. To congratulate him. I suspected he wouldn't remember me, few people do. Not that I wasn't a memorable character at university, I'd had a generally active social life, and had even managed to sleep with one of the lecturers. Anyone else would have become a legend for that. But I was different. At first I'd considered it a curse, and sometimes it was; my parents once forgot me in a Spar for almost two days. By the time I'd reached university I'd realised it was a blessing. People still forgot me, eventually, over time, but I'd realised that, with practice, I could actually *make* people forget.

For most people, their teens are an awkward, gangly period of their life, but I was socially invincible. I'd just look into people's eyes and focus, then they'd forget whatever was top of mind. Whenever I said something wrong, I could just rewind and try again. It didn't take long after that to realise how easy it is to bring something to the top of someone's mind. If I tell you to think about, say, all the reasons it's wrong for a professor to sleep with a student, your mind starts to collate answers before it has time to wonder why I would ask that question. And that's how I'd managed to sleep with Professor Jordan.

I'd texted Peter about meeting up. I knew he wouldn't remember me, but our message history would confirm that we definitely knew each other. I saw he'd read the message. He was probably checking through the graduation photo, then through some other memorabilia. Yes, we were in the same year. Yes, we'd played bridge together in a regional tournament. Yes, we were actually quite good friends. A good friend he'd neglected to invite to his wedding. There was something about the overwhelming social awkwardness that made people more likely to agree to meet up. Half an hour later we'd agreed on a time and a place.

I turned up early and claimed the most secluded booth in the restaurant, drinking my tap water and waiting for the happy couple to arrive. They were early too, a symptom of Peter's guilt, and I waved them over. His firm handshake became a warm hug of overcompensation as he introduced me to Olivia. Livia introduced herself, her smile as dazzling as the ring she shoved into my face, and we all sat down. I handed over a bouquet of little blue flowers as a sort of congratulations present. They were myosotis, I explained, Greek for mouse's ear. Once we'd ordered and Livia had given me the Cliff's notes of her life story Peter turned the conversation to bridge. He clearly still remembered the tournaments we played together, and I actually quite enjoyed slotting myself into those memories as Livia stirred her water and nodded politely. I almost felt bad for what I was going to do to Peter. Almost. Sometimes I wondered when I'd forgotten my conscience.

Partway through the meal Peter jostled out of the secluded booth to go to the bathroom. I made a comment about washing my hands and wound through the throng of tables following him. Before he could pick a stall I tapped him on the shoulder. The way I looked earnestly into his eyes, he was probably worried this was the start of an awkward private conversation. He was relieved when I just asked him about the exact location of the booth we'd been sitting at. I just nodded sagely, concentrating as he rattled off the table number, where it was, and the directions back from the bathroom. I washed and dried my hands efficiently, then slid quickly back through the restaurant and into the booth.

Livia smiled at me, in lieu of actually having to talk. I took a moment to muster my courage, and hide my giddy glee of what I was about to do. With a rehearsed swiftness I reached over the table, under her top and pulled out her left bra strap.

"What's this?" I said.

"Inappropriate," she replied, pulling herself backwards as confused fury filled her face and the strap pinged back into place.

Meeting her fiery gaze I asked, "why?"

I could see the reasons in her expression, a cavalcade of justification behind her eyes. I could see them being whipped away like words in a high wind. But they were better than that, they were thoughts, better still they were memories. I watched as she tried to pour out a torrent of righteous indignation, knowing it would all disappear into the void, as though it had never been. I half smiled as the fury drained from her face, leaving only a sort of gormless confusion. It suited her more than anger.

I reached out again, "what's this?"

"a bra strap," she replied calmly, bemused that I didn't already know.

"and why do you wear it?"

She opened her mouth but no words came out, as the memories behind them were melted away. Third time's always the charm, I thought.

"what's this?" I repeated, hopefully for the final time.

"It's a bra," she said, her tone of voice making it clear that she thought I should already know, "but I don't know why I'm wearing it."

She reached behind herself, and I met her gaze as she fumbled with the little hooks at the back. Livia was the sort of girl who's thoughts were written on her face. I could see each time her hands figured out the little mechanism, relaying the information back to her brain, which dutifully forgot. I let her go through the cycle a couple of times, learning and forgetting. I enjoyed seeing the spark of inspiration in her eye fade into dull forgetfulness each time. I offered to help, shifting around to her side of the table. Her ring glinted on her hand as she gratefully lifted up the back of her top. I quickly undid the clasp, and by the time I'd reached the other side of the table she'd managed to fully wriggle out of it and place it on the table between us.

Avoiding further conversation, we both finished our meals, and I finished Peter's before finding him wandering the restaurant and removing a couple of memories as I led him back to the table. As he sat down he didn't question the empty plate, but he did ask what was in the middle of the table. As Livia tried to explain the words died in her mouth, and they both fell into silent pondering, looking intently at the lacy black item. After a while Peter commented that it was quite a sexy item, as though he'd found a clue to solve the mystery. I thought for a moment, then laughed inwardly.

I'd always considered myself to have two powers. First, the forgetting, obviously. I was fully aware that I had a truly supernatural ability. The second was more a sort of talent, a useful character trait, to complement my psychic capabilities. I think it was the way I looked, a little bit about the way I sounded, and carried myself, but people just seemed to trust me. If anyone was confused, some natural instinct made them look to me for answers. I was blessed with a sort of newsreader's authority, someone who you would trust because it didn't occur to you that they would lie. Perhaps there was also an element of forgetting that left a hole in a person's memory, a hole that needed filling with a truth, no matter how implausible. In many circumstances this apparent trustworthiness was more useful than inducing amnesia. At any rate it's the reason that when Livia strutted out of the restaurant displaying a dancer's grace, her tits bouncing more freely, her nipples trying to escape her top, she proudly displayed a new hat, that to everyone else was clearly her sexiest black bra.

I'd managed to convince Peter to show me his little shelf of bridge trophies. Livia had warmed to the idea as I flattered her new hat. Out of husbandly loyalty Peter had had to agree that it really suited her, and she walked back home like a model on a catwalk. She did feel a little bad, as far as she was concerned some previous customer must have lost it, but ultimately finders keepers, and as far as she was concerned it looked gorgeous on her. I let her remember it was called a bra. Soon enough she'd have a hat stand full of them.

Peter talked at me about his medals as I watched Livia making a pot of tea, my eyes switching from her bra-covered head to her bra-less breasts and back again. When the tea arrived I asked the couple to bear with me for a second and picture something in their heads. They both agreed, thought experiments often made for good conversation, and kept their eyes open as asked. I told them to picture themselves at home, on a normal day. They nodded subtly as I moved on to ask them to imagine their clothes, specifically what they were wearing on their torsos. They looked expectantly at me, wondering what the punchline was. Peter looked worried that I might be pyramid selling. When asked again uncertainty clouded their faces. There was a hole in their memory. They had the look of a couple who needed their holes filled.

"well," I began, "obviously when you're out and about you wear some sort of top, like at a restaurant or something"

"and a bra," Livia chimed in, cocking her head and pointing cheerily to her new headgear.

"of course," I replied, "and presumably the bra, at least, stays on at home. It suits her, doesn't it?"

Peter silently agreed, he was growing used to the look now.

Livia beamed, "I'll have to get more"

I continued, "but what about your tops, do you two wear your tops at home?"

There was a faux-subtle note of incredulity in my voice, like I was trying to hide a hint of judginess.

"well," said Peter, the cogs whirring in his mind, trying to navigate the complex web of middle-class social signals.

He gave up.

"do you?" he asked.

"of course not," I retorted, like Livia explaining what a bra was, back when she still knew, "obviously as a guest I'll keep mine on, and I respect whatever you do in your home, but I'm always topless at home."

"so are we," chirped Livia, arguably the quicker of the two, before her words were muffled by fabric, "we're always topless at home."

As Peter followed her example she clutched her tits to her chest, sheepishly looking at me, before forgetting why she would do that and letting them hang freely. Once he'd navigated his way out of his polo shirt Peter's eyes fixed onto his new wife's breasts, his eyes momentarily filling with lust before flicking back to his tea and continuing as though this was normal.

Halfway through the tea I managed to steer the conversation onto dance, and Livia was chattering animatedly about the details of her job. Peter had heard this spiel every time Livia met one of his friends, but he didn't mind, his eyes never leaving her perky tits as they bounced with excitement. My eyes, however, stayed firmly and chivalrously in contact with Livia's.

"so," I said, "forgive me if I'm being dense here, but when exactly do you dance?"

"I'm not sure I understand," Livia smiled with polite confusion.

"you dance professionally," I paused for her to nod, "so what actually makes you start to dance, what are the circumstances?"

Even as she understood the question, the polite confusion remained. She made an effort at a reply.

"well, if we're talking about the job proper, not including practice, I tend to do backup dancing, so I'll be in a group of other people, on stage or in a studio. Obviously there's the music, and in studio there's the cameras. And of course I have to be sure I'm getting paid, that's what makes me a professional," she paused, waiting for me to clarify, "where are you going with this?"

I pushed past her question, "forget about the music for now," an ironic choice of words given I was letting her remember this factor, "describe the other reasons you dance."

As she described each one it slipped away, my eyes flitting between her and Peter, until all that was left was the music.

"so, just to clarify, since you're a professional dancer," I said innocently, "what factors make you actually dance?"

Livia went through the list in her head, finding most of the entries empty.

"I dance whenever the music comes on," she said, slowly, like she was figuring it out for the first time.

She looked over to her husband for confirmation, and he nodded sagely, it made sense to him too.

"I dance whenever the music comes on," she repeated with confidence and a smile, "does that answer your question?"

I nodded and thanked her, then asked where the bathroom was.

I didn't really care where the bathroom was. I spent about a minutes strolling around the top floor of the house, as the topless couple finished their tea below. I found an old delivery box and emptied Livia's bra drawer into it, then picked up a CD player and the seediest CDs in their collection. On the way back to the kitchen I opened the front door for a second, then closed it. I walked into the room, beaming. I explained that I'd ordered them a proper wedding present, better than that little blue bouquet that they'd so nicely found a vase for, but the delivery had been delayed. However, I'd received an email from the tracking company while washing my hands, and it had just arrived. I placed the box down on the table. Livia was overjoyed as she opened it, pressing her tits into me as she hugged me. She started trying on her bras one by one, each time making a pouty face at herself in a little side-table mirror. She looked so hot.

Peter made encouraging little noises with each new bra, and was even gracious enough to pick out a favourite. It was a frilly little red thing that I doubt would have fit Livia as a proper bra, but looked right at home on her head, although she did as Peter for help clasping it under her chin. Her husband was just trying to find the right words to compliment her when I pressed play. As I sat down to watch the show, she kicked her chair back and stood up, poised and ready. Peter looked unsurprised, music was playing after all, Livia always danced when music played; she was a professional dancer. Her eyes were fixed on an imaginary point in the distance, and her body moved with an almost hypnotic rhythm, her breasts bouncing when she hopped from foot to foot, swaying when she shifted side to side. She had the determination of someone hard at work, and the vacant look of someone completely lost in the music. It was a cheap techno track, the sort of cheaply made CD you had if you had a friend of a friend who was an aspiring producer. An aspiring producer who, in this case, made good use of the keyboard setting that made some of the keys sound like women moaning. Livia became more and more used to the stock sound effect rhythms and the drunk driving bass. She even started to mouth along to the frequent moans, her eyes still focussed on that distant point, some imaginary camera.

Peter was transfixed. He had a vague memory of Livia refusing to dance topless for him, odd because she was always topless at home, but he didn't need me to make him forget that. He just stared at his wife, dancing with a stupid smile and a bra on her head, a strand of drool escaped his mouth when she did a shimmy, her breasts swinging freely. He wiped the drool off and turned to talk to me. I didn't know what exactly he was going to say, but I knew I didn't want to hear it. I gave him a quick glance and he lost his train of thought. His erection was threatening to rip his pants and ping the button off his jeans. You can masturbate, I told him, why shouldn't you? It took him a second to realise there was no reason he shouldn't. His eyes following his wife's flouncing tits like they were a game of tennis, he slipped out of his trousers and pants and began stroking the length of his member. His wife was too focussed on being a professional to notice. I tapped him on the shoulder and caught his gaze.

"How do you masturbate?" I asked.

He looked at me like it was a stupid question, which it was, for multiple reasons. But he soon realised that it was a perfectly reasonable question. His hand faltered, losing its grip. Confused and frustrated, he grasped his cock at the base and began to swing it around apparently at random. It took me a while to realise he was following the movement of Livia's tits. As she danced and span, her breasts bouncing free of the bra that sat on top of her distant, beaming face, her husband fruitlessly shifted his cock back and forth, gasping in the little moments of pleasure he got whenever he hit into his leg.

As his hand started to move up the shaft I whispered gravely, "you know you shouldn't touch too high up the shaft, not when it's erect, that's dangerous."

As far as he was concerned, there was no reason not to trust me. I handed him a fancy looking decorative pillow, and he managed to extract some pleasure from rubbing his cock haphazardly over it, spreading a trail of precum. Song after song played, Peter and Livia both becoming sweat-drenched from exertion, neither noticing the bra sliding down her face. I could see by Peter's pained expression that he was close, frantically fucking the cushion with his cum-slick cock. He came as the last song ended, his body writhing in extasy as Livia held her final pose. They really did make a good couple.

As I pressed stop on the CD player, Livia returned from the land of dance. She smiled until she saw her favourite man and her favourite cushion covered in cum. She was sure there was a reasonable explanation. She looked to me. I always looked like the sort of person with a reasonable explanation. It didn't take long before she was nodding along with realisation dawning in her eyes. It was, after all, genuinely reasonable that her dancing turned him on, and he was her husband after all. If she forgot about me being there, and his strange way of masturbating, it was all really very normal. By the time we were all holding our second cup of tea Peter was wearing a fresh pair of trousers and pants, and Livia was stroking her favourite cushion. Apparently she had forgotten about the cum.

I managed to convince Peter to go to the pub with me, just for one drink, for old times sake. As we walked I listened earnestly as he talked; I had asked him about exactly where he lived, and exactly what route we were taking. It was only a five minute walk, but for me five minutes worth of memory could be surprisingly much. I hadn't taken him to a pub, but at this point he saw no problem with that. I led him up the steps to the apartment, continuing to talk as I put the keys in the door.

"so you're definitely alright to stay here for a while," I said

"why would I?" he asked

"do you have anywhere else to stay?"

He sifted through his memory, a task that took less and less time as I spent more and more time with him. After the tour of the apartment he was more than happy to stay there. It was pleasantly furnished, and I was generously offering to let him stay there for free. Strictly speaking I wasn't legally allowed to do that, but fortunately the actual landlady had simply forgotten that she owned the place.