Although this series of Snapshot stories is based on a real character, it is still a work of fiction and should be enjoyed as such. I enjoy writing them!
The connection is lost…beep…beep…beep, CLUNK!
If I said everything I needed to say I might not need to say it ever again, and that to me would be a loss. I have gained over the weeks a sense of composure that I had before lacked.
The artifice of my stereotypical ambivalence has caged me into retreat. I cannot think if I cannot speak, but I don’t want to speak if it means closure.
I hate this, not knowing what I might do to maintain this strange unidentifiable contact with a woman who for all I know has no compunction to be seen with the likes of me, let alone listen to all that I have to say.
If I tell her that I’m in love with her mind, she might think I’m mocking her, and refuse to talk to me any further.
If I tell her that I think she is the most infuriatingly yet brilliant beauty I’ve ever come across, she may just think I’m nuts.
If I tell her that she makes me feel whole and divine inside, she may think that I have gone soft in the head and decide that I’m no longer worth challenging.
Am I falling in love with her?
What do I know…
Love is a dirty word around these parts. Spoken too loudly and people give you odd looks, like you’ve suddenly grown an extra head!
The longer I leave it, the more I’ll want to just drop everything, catch a plane and go to wherever she bloody well is! For weeks she has been at my fingertips, in front of me, there on tap… if I need her. Actually whether I need her or not!
She’s there and I like it. I like it too much.
Now though, she is distant, not real, an illusion of my overactive mind and my congenitally suppressed ego.
The propaganda of my amphibious heart is calling out for resuscitation. “SOMEBODY FETCH THE BELLOWS AND THE PIPE TOBACCO!”
Why did anybody think that would ever work?!
“Quick I’m drowning, blow smoke up my arse!”
They certainly didn’t have this issue with technological expediency like we do now. The telegraph system, that was their equivalent internet.
If you were going to have a conversation with someone you were damned well going to be in the same room. Face to face, mano a mano!
When I talk to her, she is in the same room as me, but I can’t look into her eyes. I can’t touch her radiant skin, or kiss her clever lips. I can’t do anything, but masticate my gum and dream.
Dream of how I would hold her up close so that she could feel my intent thumping away inside my chest; savouring that moment like it was a pause in the space-time continuum. Prickles of sweat glistening on her brow and her upper lip; her mouth slightly open as if catching her breath, expectant of my next move. A move closer still, so that separation becomes a memory of another time, another space.
Am I in love with this ridiculous woman?
Yes I fucking well am!
Do I wish she was here right now?
What do you think?
She’s got me by the balls, and has no idea how much I like that!
Yeah, that’s it… now my ire is up.
No more piddle-arsing about. I’m going to tell her everything, and to hell with how she might react.
She might just say the complete opposite. She might just love it all!
She might just love me back….
Other Snapshot stories in this series:
Part One – The Infallible Mr.Andrews
Part Two – The Ineffable Mr. Andrews