Phantoms

Cradling a mug of steaming coffee, she inhaled deeply and savored the heady fragrance, warm and deep and reminiscent of hazy mornings on a beach somewhere. Ah, but some musings are best left alone. She squared her shoulders and marshaled her thoughts into other territory, though the notion lingered just off the starboard bow of her consciousness.

Memories are powerful boats, ferrying all sorts of perceptions, emotions and fantasies into consciousness -- bidden or not, and sometimes all that's needed to set them afloat is a scent, a glimpse, a familiar image, a slant of the light, or shadow. No amount of determination to forget is equal to the strength of a memory evoked, even if it's but a phantom memory of something merely desired, never experienced. Such memories are perhaps the most troublesome, since they blur the lines between what is known, what can be known, and what is nevertheless true.

Genuine thoughts seemed closely associated with either coffee or wine, she noted wryly. The indisputable nature of the fact confirmed the adage, "Better living through chemistry," she supposed, and poured herself another cup.