by Mike Reeves-McMillan
Meredith looks up from her second Scotch and meets the gaze of a tall man, straight dark hair, blue eyes. He smiles, and glances away almost immediately. Shy.
He's just her type. Though she doesn't remember ever going out with a guy this good-looking.
"Have I seen you in here before?" he says.
"Maybe," she says. "I like this place."
"So do I." He smiles. "Especially tonight."
He's looking at her in a way that warms her, even more than the Scotch. She finishes off her glass, sits it on the bar. Looks at him expectantly.
"Let me get you another one of those," he says.
"I want you to take it all out," she tells the memory doctor.
"Ms. Bailey, I really don't advise that."
"I didn't come for your advice. I came for your expertise in memory reset."
"Ms. Bailey, are you aware that you've been to this clinic before?"
"Of course. I remember that perfectly well."
"Do you know why?"
"No. Which is why I came back to you. You've clearly been successful in removing my memories of whatever it was that I asked you to get rid of."
"Ms. Bailey, may I have your permission to tell you what you--"
"No, you may not." Agitated, she stands, paces. "These last three months have been a slowly escalating hell. The lying, the cheating, the emotional manipulation, the fights...." She stops, leans on the doctor's glass desk, hands flat, staring the middle-aged woman straight in the eyes. "I've already wiped David out of my social media profiles. I've destroyed all the photos I have of us together, every message, every item he's left in my apartment. But I can't get him out of my head. Only you can do that."
"I repeat, I don't advise it."