Muscle Memory

The embrace lasted a moment or two longer than some would consider appropriate. They didn’t care. It felt…familiar, comfortable.

For a moment her fingers reached for his hair. She didn’t intend to. Her hand seemed to act of its own free will.

Muscle memory, she thought. She had read about how figure skaters and gymnasts train to develop muscle memory. They repeat a series of motions over and over until their muscles remember and do them automatically. Arms and legs moving in perfect, repetitive motion; they perform flawless routines without thinking about it.

She busied her hands with items on the table, diverting them from their intended target. How long was a muscle memory, twenty-five years?

Her gaze slid outside the window and there it was. Parked at the curb was the proof of how twenty-five years could change a person. It was an impossibly responsible car, too white, too quiet. In that moment, she hated it.

She remembered what it felt like on the back of his motorcycle as if it were yesterday, even though she hadn’t thought of it in years. She could feel the wind on her skin, the roar of the engine filled her ears. She recalled the thrill of speeding away from her house, her parents’ bewildered expression as they watched her disappear on the back of the red, loud, powerful machine. She could feel her limbs remembering what it felt like to hang on, for the sake of hanging on. She remembered what reckless felt like. A smile played at the corners of her mouth.

She turned her gaze back to him, searching for something. Something left over from those days. The hair was a little shorter than she remembered; the clothes a little more conservative; his manner more quiet and subdued. He was more thoughtful and mild. But it was still there, the twinkle in his eyes, the slightly teasing grin. It made her giggle.

She traced tiny circles on the rim of her cup with her finger. Flawless circles; like a figure skater.