“You know, I can’t even remember which knee your scar is on,” I say to Gene.
“My right knee,” he says. “I think.”
“You don’t know?”
“Well, let’s see.” He pulls up his pant leg and we look at his knee. “Yep, there it is.”
I blink. “That’s tiny. I guess I’m thinking of the scar on your shin.”
“My shin?” He pulls up his other pant leg and we look at his scar-free shin.
“What the hell?” I say. “I distinctly remember you having a great big whopping pink scar on one of your legs.”
“Nope.”
We sit silently for a moment, me frowning, Gene contemplating his own kneecaps with interest.
“Maybe someone has changed reality in the style of The Matrix, or some kind of time-travel scenario,” I suggest, “and I am the only one who remembers things the way they used to be. Everyone else is like…sheep…and I’m like…the thing that stands out in a flock of sheep.” Gene’s only response is to continue to eyeball his own legs. “This can’t be good,” I say. “The one who remembers is always the one who has to be brutally dealt with by the robot overlords or scrappy time-traveling adventurers. In fact, you know what? I officially do not remember your scar. This new reality is just fine with me.”
“Okay,” says Gene to his knees.
“And if you’re the one who changed reality, well…please don’t kill me in my sleep.”
“Okay,” he says.
And he didn’t.
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