String Theory

DT Krippene

With my feet propped on the printer stand, I stared at the cursor on a blank page of my current manuscript. The local heatwave must have short-circuited my brain’s memory synapses. Whatever I needed to remember dangled out of reach, as if mocking me.

The twenty-year-old outdoor AC condenser outside my home office wailed like a dying coyote on another triple-digit day with ninety-five percent humidity. Sweat beaded on my bare chest despite the old 180-degree oscillating fan from my college days rattling on the corner of my office desk. It had been two years since the last time Pennsylvania weather went bonkers. At least then, I got a decent fiction magazine story out of it with “The Wrathful Goddesses of Spring.”

Hanna wandered in with whatever bottled hydrating drink was in vogue and set it on my desk. “Why don’t you work in the living room? This office is always too warm in summer.”

“I prefer the misery of my own cave.”

“You plan to wear clothes anytime this week?” she teased.

“I’m wearing boxers.”

She planted a kiss on my forehead. “But that doesn’t excuse leaving your barn door open. You should wear cotton boxer shorts. Better absorption.”

“I like the airy freedom of skivvies.” I looked up at her and dropped into my low, raspy superhero voice. “That way you know when Hulk is ready for action.”

Hanna flicked with her finger a strand of hair that spiked from my scalp and chuckled. “You always had a great imagination.” She glanced at the empty Word doc on my laptop. “Don’t you have a deadline coming up?”

I leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “Ever have something on the tip of your mind, and you know it’s important, but can’t recall it? I’m thinking it might be a killer idea to jump-start the next chapter, but I can’t be sure. It’s driving me crazy.”

She ambled to a wall pimpled with Post-it notes of every color available. “I gave up telling you to write shit down. Some of these have been up here so long, the ink is fading.” Blowing dust off a yellow legal pad, she fingered through multiple pages of scribbled handwriting. “You ever revisit this stuff?”

“I try. Then I get distracted by one thing or another and forget I wrote it.”

“You’re such a pantser.”

“Guilty as charged.” I twisted and dropped my feet to the floor. “Have you read my updated bio yet?”

“It’s good. Though you might want to rethink your gender profile. Identifying as “Trouble” with pronouns “Who/Me” might not be taken in the spirit of levity you intended.” She peeled off a curled note that had cobwebs clinging to its backside. “You take your ADD meds today?”

Include pesky spouse in the distraction queue. “Who can remember anything in this damned weather furnace?”

“Tie a string around your finger next time.” She pointed to the bottle. “Drink.”

Watching Hanna sashay out the door in her tight Lycra short-shorts never ceased to beguile me. But even Hulkwas hibernating in this heat.

“Tie a string around my finger,” I muttered to the walls. Who made up that crap?

Lacking anything remotely useful story-wise, I punched a few words into the search engine bar. History of string tied to finger.

The first result about “jogging the memory” came as no surprise. One article mentioned mnemonics, a strategy that made it easier to recall information by creating associations. Could be any kind of physical clue. A word, picture, music, location, what someone might say. Or a skill I excel at, waiting until something breaks to realize it needs fixing.

The obvious practical flaw? I’d stare at the thread and still not remember. “Didn’t work so well for Uncle Billy in It’s a Wonderful Life.”

I chuckled at a few less serious entries. To create a bow on a finger required the skill of tying a knot with one hand. In the UK, the phrase “get knotted” was slang for “buzz off.”

Another referenced an 1893 man named Merle Chadwick, who postulated that if a person bound a finger so tightly that it cut off circulation, the finger would eventually have to be amputated. “Yeah, that’d do it. People would remember anything associated with an amputation.”

A few references cited ancient religious traditions instructing followers to bind a strip of clothing to their hands or wrists as a reminder of their sacred commitment. European and Chinese folklore favored tying a red cord to the left hand to symbolize a romantic connection.

“I’ll bet it promoted the phrase, ‘tying the knot,’” I mused, glimpsing at our wedding photo perched on a bookshelf.

I shut down the screens, guzzled half the bottled drink, and winced from the aftertaste. I read the label. “Mitochondrial Moisturizer.” And Hanna thinks my bio profile isn’t funny.

Wandering into the kitchen, I used a finger to scoop a sample of Hanna’s corn salad, my favorite summer treat.

“How about washing your hands first?” she scolded.

“I’ll tie a string around a finger to remind me.”

She leaned on the sink and stared at me with a strange, almost questioning look.

“Fine,” I admitted. “I should’ve washed my hands.”

“Don’t move.” Hanna rifled through a drawer, then pushed it shut with her hip. She cut a piece of string from a ball of red twine. “Come here.”

Uh-oh. On cue for once, my memory delivered the amputation article.

“Quit being a weenie,” she said, giggling when I hesitated. “Hold out your left hand.” She looped the index finger and gently tied a bow with just enough pressure to keep it from loosening. “There. Leave it on until I say you can take it off.”

I squinted at it. Is this penance for making fun of her string theory?

“Now, go clean up,” she ordered. “You’re beginning to contaminate my salad with your sweaty odoriferousness.”

I chose silent surrender and waited until I headed up the stairs to roll my eyes.

The cool shower did wonders in erasing the equatorial body slime that coated me. Toweling myself, I patted dry the bow-tied finger, wondering if the ritual might be a lost historical reference to being a slave. Hanna’s response would be, I own you.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I had a fresh pair of skivvies halfway up my calf when I froze. The elusive lost thought came to me. Damn. I studied my left hand. Could there be something to this string thing?

I found Hanna in the family den, the coolest room in the house. Instrumental guitar music streamed in the background. A martini sat on an end table nearest my Barca lounger.

A sheepish smile came easily to my lips. “I’m an idiot.”

Relaxing on the couch with a book, she peered over the half-moon glasses resting on the tip of her nose. “A recognition of the incredibly obvious, but I’ll bite.” She beamed an impish grin. “Why are you an idiot?”

I slurped a nip of the martini. “It wasn’t an idea for the chapter. Tomorrow is our anniversary.”

Setting her novel and reading specs aside, she crossed the room and slid into my lap.

The combination of embarrassment and the feel of her in my lap warmed my face. “It must have been the Asian myth of a string tying two fated hearts that did it.”

“That only works if I’m also wearing one.”

“Then … what was it?”

“I tied it to your index finger because it’s connected to your hippocampus. The part of the brain associated with memory.”

“Really?” Nothing in my quick research mentioned it. “That’s brilliant.”

“Wow, you’re so gullible.” She laughed. “Some medical quack posted the theory on social media and was immediately debunked. But I thought you’d find the humor in it.”

I wrapped my arms around her torso and pressed my forehead to hers. “So, now that I’ve redeemed myself by not forgetting our anniversary, what do you want to do?”

Hanna pinched an end of the red string and pulled to release it. “Something quiet. Make a cold seafood platter—nice, chilled, white wine…”

She dangled the string in front of my face. “Then invite Hulk for dessert.”

~