<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Remembrance of Things Past<\/strong><\/p>\n I met him at Jinty McGuinty\u2019s on Ashton Lane. He tagged along for drinks after a conference at the university and was introduced by my colleague simply as, a friend. <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Amy Burns<\/strong> is the Managing Editor of Mulberry Fork Review <\/em><\/a>. She holds a PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Glasgow. For more information visit: http:\/\/amyelizabethburns.com Remembrance of Things Past I met him at Jinty McGuinty\u2019s on Ashton Lane. He tagged along for drinks after a conference at the university and was introduced by my colleague simply as, a friend. My colleague began the conversation. The topic: Proust, the only topic with which he was completely comfortable. His […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-7047","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7047","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=7047"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7047\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7050,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7047\/revisions\/7050"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7047"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=7047"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=7047"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nMy colleague began the conversation. The topic: Proust, the only topic with which he was completely comfortable.
\nHis friend was a good sport and chimed in whenever he could. He said, \u201cHaving never gone to university, having never read Proust\u2019s work, the best I can offer is that in a weakened moment of practicality I once used \u00c0 la recherche du temps perdu as a doorstop.\u201d
\nMy colleague, well on his way to being drunk, was good-humoured about the admission, \u201cHad you used it to line your birdcage I would have been forced to kill you and dispose of your body in the most disrespectful of ways.\u201d
\nWe laughed a little too loud and quickly fell quiet. To break the silence we agreed to another round. I went out for a smoke and my colleague\u2019s friend joined me.
\n\u201cCan I get a light?\u201d he said.
\nI held the cigarette lighter out for him. Ignoring it, he leaned in, put his hand at the base of my neck to keep me from pulling away, and lit his cigarette from mine. He took a step back and looked at me, expressionless. He took a long draw and held the smoke, without exhaling, for longer than I could watch without breaking his stare.
\nThe wind tunnelled through the narrow lane, trapping trash from the parking lot into a littered corner and pasting autumn leaves against wet cobblestones. I zipped my jacket and said, \u201cGlasgow weather, eh?\u201d
\nHe didn\u2019t reply.
\nFeeling even more awkward, I finished my cigarette and made a step toward the pub. He took hold of my arm. \u201cYou don\u2019t remember me, do you?\u201d
\nI looked at him closely. His face looked soft under the glow of strung twinkle lights and neon blush but there was something stern in his expression, something that made me uneasy.
\n\u201cShould I?\u201d
\n\u201cI thought you were pretending for the benefit of the academic whores but I should have known that you weren\u2019t that good an actress.\u201d
\n\u201cPerhaps you\u2019ve got me mixed up with somebody else.\u201d
\nHe let go of my arm and took a final draw from his cigarette. He said, \u201cThere is no man, however wise, who has not at some period of his youth said things, or lived in a way the consciousness of which is so unpleasant to him in later life that he would gladly, if he could, expunge it from his memory.\u201d
\nI shook my head.
\nHe said, \u201cThat\u2019s Proust, bitch.\u201d He put the hood up on his brown jacket, stuffed his hands into deep, flannel-lined pockets and cut a quick path toward Byres Road before I whispered, \u201cI\u2019m sorry you\u2019re still such a bastard.\u201d<\/p>\n
\n<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"