Be reasonable, don't be stupid, and keep that chin up.

That was her advice to him. It was simple, but it was everything in his eyes. He was going out again. And this time it was much longer than a couple of hours to buy things like milk and eggs. Stepping into the big leagues. Leaving behind small-towners like her. So she pressed a small scrap of paper into his hands. He opened it to find 7 small numbers scrawled in her same flowy handwriting she had since she was 12. A phone number. Who's?

Hers.

The same number that has been engraved in his mind for years. The same number on his speed dial. The same number that he worshiped. Loved. Or was he still speaking of the number? All his thoughts, his dreams, his memories buzzed inside his head, he clutched his head to prevent his thoughts from spilling outside his ears. So he stared back down. And it was still there. Like a beckoning. That same phone number. Those seven digits that meant everything in the world to him and almost as if he was afraid of losing her, he clutched the scrap of paper. But how could he ever forget when it was embossed in his mind like 7 huge numbers spelling out one name? He almost felt hurt. Betrayed. Unloved. Or maybe it was his emotions again. Those were always in his way. She would tell him that it was his weakest factor. And he would say the same to her.

He held out the scrap of paper out towards her in the palm of his hand.

"Just in case you forget when you play with the big kids. Go out there and be good. Be the boy, the man that I grew up with."

He half smiled and watched her push away his hand with the scrap of paper still grasping it.

Nodding, he walked into the skyway, never once looking back.

Two years later he sat with his back to the door. He could hear people running around outside, probably preparing for the madness that was going down tonight. The madness that went around every night. Sighing, he grabbed his head and buried it in his hands. Tired as he was, there was still a show tonight. Just like there was every night. A knocking at the door interrupted his thoughts as he got up ever so gently and answered the door.

"Five minutes, Joey."

He nodded and looked back into the mirror. Clean face, except for the stubble on his chin. He checked his pockets and made sure they were empty before going into wadrobe to change. He dug his hands deep into his pocket and felt his fingers hit something. Whatever it was, it must have been pretty old. He had found these pants in the back of his closet and decided to let them revisit his suitcase. He reached to grab it and found an old, torn piece of paper. Opening it up, he glanced at the number. On it was a seven digits written in flowy handwriting. Handwriting that had been pushed to the back of his mind and the back of his heart. And the numbers. Seven well written numbers that had once been embossed is his head was just a memory now.

He closed his eyes again.

He had forgotten her.

She was once his solace and now he had forgotten her.

Reaching for the phone, he started to dial the number. As he got to the sixth digit, it had become too hard for him. Slowly putting the phone back onto the counter, he clutched the piece of paper close to his heart.

Now it was his solace.