She didn’t do it on purpose. It was neither a cunning scheme, nor a sophisticated plan to make people remember her. She never really meant to leave anything behind her. If anything, it must have been her elusive subconscious.
It seemed that this exact amount of alcohol – the one that already makes you do stupid things but not yet forget doing them the next morning – somehow always made her forget the cold, so that she usually realized she was without her scarf long after it was still worth (or safe) to come back for it without making an unnecessary fuss.
Not that she left it behind a lot. In fact, what was it? The third time in her twenty-something life when she decided to get wasted? To let go of things? Well, hell knows why, but one of those things always happened to be her scarf.
Scarf which was always the first piece of clothing she took off and the last one she put on – the first step on her way down and the last thing to cover up the shame with afterwards. Shame that was never really clear to her, but was always there. Usually combined with fear.
Fear of her own mind, of course.
Because to her mind, being undressed and touched was like being marked, no matter how loud alcohol hummed in her head. Fingers and lips (especially lips!) always seemed to cut into her body, leaving invisible scars that never really faded away once she was sober. They tended to stay with her, for weeks or months, until the next time. Some even seemed to stay forever. And the same thing happened to her memory: no matter how blurry the vision or obscure the words, her mind always made sure to remember the scenes and sentences well, so that later on, they would come back to her in dreams and during long, lonely evenings.
Even though she never stopped trying, she was simply unable to discern the physical attraction from mental attachment; they always went together for her, like the flash and the thunder. So, ever since she realized she couldn’t help it, she was being careful: she kept cutting it off before it went too far in her mind.
But each time (of those humble three), the damned scarf stood in the way: the small reminder of her silly forgetfulness, the reckless reason to get back.
But, anyway, it was still better to leave your scarf rather than heart behind, right?