By Rubbag
“You’ve stopped talking, Jed.”
I find myself staring at the microphone on the desk in front of me. Beside it an old reel-to-reel tape recorder spins slowly. They both belong in a museum, they’ve got to be fifty years old.
“More like sixty years, Jed.”
The man who’s spoken is sitting across the desk from me.
“Do you know who I am, Jed?”
I look at him carefully. He is not yet old but somewhere more than mature. His hair is silver white, kept trim like his beard. His face is lean and handsome, and his eyes look through me. I feel that I should know him. I should know his face, that I’ve his heard voice before, but then like a mist it fades. I just shake my head.
“That’s ok, Jed, when you’re ready you’ll remember.”
I find myself smiling at him as he speaks.
“Tell, Jed, do you know where you are?”