Short Story

I still cry…

It was two summers ago, I believe, that a friend of mine left my house with his Facebook profile logged in and still open upon my computer. It is a temptation enjoyed very seldomly, as most people have the foresight to log out before they leave an unfamiliar computer. But my friend was quite familiar with my computer, and even the brightest men are confused into making mistakes sometimes. It just so happened that a phone call had excited him to the point where he felt the necessity to leave without any delay, in such a rush that even as he walked out the door he felt the air on his naked head and realized he had forgotten his hat. After turning back for his late-remembered hat and bidding me a quick but not so unsincere good-bye, the screen door swung closed behind him and I watched him wheel his car impatiently yet still quite cautiously out of the driveway. It wasn’t until after a quick supper and a chapter from a book that I returned to my room where we had spent our brief evening together. As I sat at the end of my mattress, pondering life in one of those mindless moments in which a person comes to realize they have nothing to do, and frantically tries to grasp a thought to put into action, I felt my eyes slowly wander over to the open computer screen. The blue and white column-work of the facebook news feed caught my eye. A jolt of relief went through my soul, as I now found myself not so alone and with something akin to a contructive activity to partake in. Yet even as I scrolled through some various and unimportant status updates from people I did not recognize, it had not yet dawned on me that I was in the face of something even more exciting than first expected. It wasn’t until I saw a message unfold at the bottom of the screen that I realized the power I had in my hands. It was from a girl, one whom I did not know at all, and it was enough to awaken me into the consciousness that I was on another persons profile. Something in the message, the name she used, gave it away. I believe it read ” hey chief (: ! ” or a very similar, equally feminine greeting, and I knew from the moniker that it was meant for my recently departed friend, Devon Cheiffeur. Being that it was night time, or maybe late evening, I can not remember, I quickly decided that there was nothing else in my life more important at the moment than this message. I sat for a moment, staring at the two words with their punctuated smiley face, thinking about my friend and my current situation. The first thought told me to explain that he had left and that I was logging off of his page, but after repeating the thought back to myself I understood that I would surely be making it less likely for him to converse with this very nice sounding girl on her own terms ever again. So I did the best I could for a friend, and made out some very fun-loving small talk with the girl, and upon looking at her photos I began to make an even more earnest attempt at winning over her happiness, all for my friends sake; yet I also took great care to stay away from anything that would bind my friend to the future or force him to continue a discussion of on any later point in his relationship with this belle. I did a very good job at keeping her mind occupied to, speaking mainly in questions concerning her personality and material life, things which could easily be learned by him later on just by a quick glance at the conversation. Occasionally, when the conversation began to stray into more deep topics, such as where her life is spiritually at the moment, or what she would like to be doing in the future, I would let her talk as much as she pleased and even coax her on, but I couldn’t possibly let the conversation be turned over to me in these moments; for how could I speak for another man on topics like these, of the deepest desires of someone elses heart? Even as close as I was at the time with Devon, I could never have represented to this bon fille the delicate things which are only meant to be confided to in private, and only with the most intimate of partners. Yet here I was, and she on the other end, spilling out her heart’s best-kept secrets, even her most tantalizing fantasies! I would not attempt to describe the way I felt in this position. Slowly, due to her persistant coaxing and sweet-talk, with the gentle pulling of the arm which only the sweetest girls can perform, I felt my inhibitions being wheedled away. I had spent well over an hour getting to know this beautiful dame’s mind, which I had now come to have such a deep connection with, and in my heart I felt the seed of love beginning to germinate, sprout even; I longed for her with my deepest passion, and yet I could never at this point tell her that I am not really who she thinks I am with the hope that things would stay the same. Yet neither could I dream of walking away at this moment. By this time, I had lost all of the nobility I began with. Somewhere along the way I had crossed the line between helping kindle a flame for a friend and falling deeply in love with this heavenly angel. It’s a fine line, really, and upon looking back I couldn’t even decide when it had actually happened. All I knew was that I was speaking for myself now, and all restraint which I had held back with in the beginning had been disentegrated, melted away in the heat of my desire. I was telling her my strangest fancies, and my boldest of dreams. I let her know how I wanted to to run off into a mountain in the deep country and start a life there with someone. How dreadfully piteous did I feel when she told me that she would leave everything behind and go with me, and that we could start a family, and homeschool our children while they grew up with their hearts one and together with nature! I cried while I typed, I told her she was the girl of my dreams, she made it clear that she shared the feeling. Yet what was I supposed to do, floating up to my neck in my own vile lies? No, not lies; I meant every word I spoke. My judgement told me that she meant everything she said, too. And apparently I was right. Two years later, on the date of March 12, 2013, my friend, Devon Cheiffeur, and his fiancee, Isabelle Bardot, are to be married in the same town in which they met. Upon wrapping up the ceremony, they are to travel to a cabin nestled deep in the Appalachain Mountains, where they will spend a month together enjoying nature and searching for a home to purchase. It is said that even after two years, she still brings up the facebook conversation with which Devon stole away her heart for eternity. And I, the best man, even after two years, still cry.

Categories: Art, Poetry, Short Story | 1 Comment

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