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FBI Agent Detmeier didn’t think he’d hang off a helicopter anytime soon. It was the furthest thing from his mind this evening. Television and movies certainly ruined the junior agent’s perception of the service. After completing his training in Quantico, Jim Detmeier proved adept at the computer-something he was always mildly teased for by his classmates. Even in the twenty-first century, the classical style of bullying still exists.
Because of that aptitude, his first job upon graduation last fall was the incredibly dull and monotonous Cyber Surveillance Unit. Since then, it’s been six months of monitoring shitty civilian tips and loose ends. If the Federal Bureau of Investigation had a hazing ritual, the Cyber Surveillance Unit would be at the top of the list.
Agent Detmeier spent most of each 12-hour shift monitoring specific individuals on the Internet for suspicious activity. These often come from anonymous tips or go into the FBI pipeline for a suspect’s continued use of suspicious sites, usually teetering around the dark web or more suggestive sites of varying perverse flavors. Most of the time, individual targets did very little else beyond looking at pornography and sports scores on ESPN. Thankfully, most of the targets had their laptop cameras closed. For every closed camera was another in full, unceremonious view. Detmeier would like to forget more than he’s seen in the last six months of old perverted penises than three lifetimes could make up for.
Jim strolled to his office outside Washington, D.C. He lazily swiped his badge at the entrance and again at the elevator to the tenth floor. Jim yawned twice while clutching his large mug of coffee and swiped one last time into his SCIF, or sensitive compartmented information facility. In that room, he shared a cubicle area with three other agents, each monitoring three given contacts during their shifts.
“So, Timmy, who do we have on the docket tonight?” Tim was the closest thing that Jim had to a friend in his new position. Jim hoped Tim felt the same, but he couldn’t tell. The other two agents with them tonight, a brooding woman named Felicia Parker and a tall former Division I basketball player named George Russell, sat quietly at their desks. Only Agent Parker mildly acknowledged Jim’s presence. Her eyes screamed, “You’re late,” without saying anything.
“Goddamnit, I hate when you call me that,” said Jim. He revealed a slight smirk that matched Jim’s like a mirrored image. “Ugh. Fine…Asshole. So, we have the same three people as last shift – the suspected car thief, the boring fertilizer guy, and the chronic masturbator.”
“Ooof, that’s tough. I get a new one tonight to add to my list after closing “Mr. Pyro.” Jim’s smile widened in a grin that screamed “obnoxious” and bordered “shit-eating.” The police in Dayton, Ohio, arrested Terry Tuttleman, 46, AKA “Mr. Pyro,” last Friday for conspiracy to burn his business down for insurance. It wasn’t necessarily a feather in Detmeier’s cap, but it gave his supervisor enough onus to provide him with more complex cases.
“So, who’s the newbie? I know you got the other two boring ones. Let’s hope this one is interesting.” The two boring targets Tim referred to were both cyberbullies at the high school level. Beyond a few anonymous tips, there was nothing the FBI could do until either escalated their childish banter. Jim looked at his email and task package list and found his new surveillance target: William Ames, a suspected dark web administrator. Things were looking up. He closed his eyes briefly and sipped his lukewarm coffee before turning to Tim. He had to think of a witty retort.
“Oh, whatever. At least I don’t have to sit there and watch my new guy type out Internet searches for Sydney Sweeney’s feet pics.” Jim laughed. He got him good. Tim started to chuckle but cut it off when he realized that would likely be most of his shift’s next 7-10 hours. “I got me a suspected dark web administrator – read it and weep!” His voice went into a southern drawl that sounded like he was the ringleader of a rodeo. Tim stared blankly back at him.
“Oh, screw you, that’s actually exciting!” Tim mimicked the finger (after all, the watchers were also being watched) and slinked back into his six-screen rig for another hour of monitoring Pornhub searches and Door Dash orders.
Jim settled into his shift setup after meeting with his supervisor to discuss his new target. Most of the surveillance job inside the SCIF was monotonous and tiresome. Without using a cell phone or regular Internet searches, each agent did what they could to ensure their eyes wouldn’t cross. As much as it sped up brain melt, a successful tour in this job wrote an agent’s ticket to bigger and better things within the Bureau. Jim could hang on that helicopter after all.
The first hour went smoothly. Both of Jim’s cyber-bullies had homework to do, so most of their searches involved Wikipedia and Chat GPT. Mr. Ames, however, was very strange off the bat. Jim noted a list of searches in his log. He stared at the list on the screen in puzzlement.
“Jazz influences of modern artists and rock music”
“Indian pornography and red circle sexy sexy”
“Metaverse article about the influence of technology and A.I.”
What the hell did jazz influences and Indian porno have to do with the Metaverse? Some searches and websites puzzled the brain, but those three made zero sense. Jim looked at his watch. 8:30 p.m. Break time. He left the secure facility and walked outside with his telephone in hand to call his girlfriend, Maddie. The phone dialed three times before she picked up.
“Hello, Clarice,” she said in a voice that attempted to mimic Hannibal Lectre. After half a year on the job, he thought she would tire of it. She did not.
“Ha. Very funny,” said Jim. “How are things going?”
“Not too bad. Just finished cleaning up after dinner with Janice.” Her roommate was sweet, if not mildly excentric. “Besides a bunch of random robo calls on my phone interrupting our meal, it’s been quiet here. Are we still planning to go to the farmer’s market tomorrow?” Jim had to do the mental math on how much sleep he could get before going to her apartment at noon to go to the Annandale farmer’s market before it closed at 1:30 p.m.
“Sure, babe. Just slogging through this shift. I swear it will get better. I promise I’ll get on the day shift once I close another hot case.” Jim wasn’t entirely convinced that was true, but he had to give her a convincing lie.
“Yeah, you will, Mr. Rockstar. OK. I gotta go. Try to call me again on a break before I go to sleep around 11:30 p.m. Love you.”
“Love you too,” Jim said. He hung up and realized he would be a fool if he didn’t put a ring on her finger by the end of the year. He filled his lungs with the last deep breath of fresh air for the next three hours and returned to his desk.
The night continued as usual. After a few random chats with friends on Facebook, one of the bullies looked to call it an early night. The other bully focused his attention on a girl. A few D.M.s he sent to the poor girl’s Instagram made him cringe. Either way, he made a file for the new conversation in case it progressed into something more serious. Mr. Ames continued a dizzying array of searches that made no connection. If this guy continued to type out gibberish with no prospect of conversing with anyone online, he would suggest his supervisor dropped the case. Either way, he logged his next set of insane searches.
“California drought figures 2011 to 2022”
“After Hours Movie Quotes”
“Lion and witch and wardrobe”
“Lady PGA tour leaders of the last twenty years”
Jim continued to monitor the two active targets for the next hour. Eventually, Mr. DM gave up on his latest love, Lex, and fell asleep. That left Mr. Ames. His next slew of searches seemed as random as ever until Jim noticed something as he logged the final one.
“Heroism in the military and examples”
“Electric vehicles of the future”
“Realizations of horrific news for J.D.”
Jim looked at his watch. It was 11:16 p.m. He wiped his blurry eyes and looked at the last one: “Realizations of horrific news for J.D.” What? What is J.D. This guy did a lot of dumb searches, but that one seemed especially stupid. Jim waved Tim over to look at it.
“Huh. I have no idea. This guy seems like a nut job who is just typing random shit. Probably not a lot of the black market and too much black tar. I wouldn’t read too much in on it, bud.” Tim gave his coworker a reassuring pat on the back before returning to his desk for his monitoring.
Another long search came into his database, turning his blood cold. He saw the search on the screen: a single word written repeatedly.
Jim knew what an acrostic was. He quickly opened Ames’ file and looked at all the searches in a row.
“Jazz influences of modern artists and rock music”
“Indian pornography and red circle sexy sexy”
“Metaverse article about the influence of technology and A.I.”
“California drought figures and 2011 to 2022”
“After Hours Movie Quotes”
“Lion and witch and wardrobe”
“Lady PGA tour leaders of the last twenty years”
“Heroism in the military and examples”
“Electric vehicles of the future”
“Realizations of horrific news for J.D.”
He saw it almost immediately before moving towards the door of the secure facility to grab his phone: J I M C A L L H E R. J.D. was Jim Detmeier.
He nearly toppled over Agent Russell’s massive body as he darted out to grab his phone. He unlocked the screen and saw no missed calls. “Oh, thank god,” he said to himself. He scrolled on his phone for a second to calm down. He saw a single unread text message from an unidentified number in his area code. He could only muster a short gasp before calling Maddie immediately. The single text message said the same thing as the search: “Call her.”
The phone rang five times before Maddie answered.
“Jim, I didn’t think you were going to call, I was about to–”
“GODDAMNIT MADDIE DON’T HANG UP!” Jim shouted into the phone. “Maddie, are you OK?”
“Jesus, Jim, can you tone it down a little?” Maddie said. “Yeah, I am good. I was getting ready to go to sleep. What the hell is wrong?”
Jim couldn’t get the words out fast enough as he fumbled for his keys. Screw work. Work will always be there. He had to drive to see her and make sure she was OK. “Maddie, I don’t know what’s going on, but I think somebody is fucking with me.”
Maddie sounded puzzled. “Who is messing with you? How could they know – you’re FBI.” He interrupted her.
“Look, damnit, I don’t know.” He started the engine and nearly wrecked his car, putting it in reverse in the tight parking lot. “Maddie, has anything weird happened tonight? You didn’t say anything earlier, right?”
“Jim, I am fine. Besides the random robocalls, there’s nothing wrong.” Jim suddenly remembered the robo calls from earlier.
“Mads, what is the number? Is it the same number? How many times did they call?”
She took a second to go through her phone and made a noise that he knew was her sour expression. “Huh. I didn’t realize it, but they are all from the same number.”
“OK, Mads! Listen to me.” Jim screamed into the phone as he drove 86 mph down Interstate 495 toward the Wedgewood apartment complex in Annandale. He didn’t care if the cops stopped him. Hell, the thought of getting pulled over might be better. He might need backup. “You need to stay put wherever you are.”
“Jim, what the hell is going on? You’re scaring me,” Maddie said with increasing concern.
“MADS! I hope I am. You and Janice need to lock the front door, get into a safe room, and lock that door. Then you need to call the police and wait for me. I am almost there! Please stay on the phone with me. I am almost there.” Jim saw signs for her exit.
“Oh,” she said, “that number is calling again. Should I answer it?”
“Maddie, no! Just hang on. I am coming to you. Baby, please stay safe and get into a room and lock the goddamn door!”
“OK, Jim, OK!” she looked at her phone. “Whatever it was went to voicemail. I’m getting scared.”
“I am almost there. I am..”
Just then, Jim heard three loud knocks on the door and heard a voice that sounded like his. He could barely hear it.
“Hey babe,” the voice said. “I’m here to help. Open up!” Jim’s bowels nearly loosened from the other end of the line.
“Oh, thank God, Jim. You’re here. Coming.” She hung up immediately.
“NOOOOO. MADDIE!!!” Jim screamed into his phone. He was a mile away from her exit and could see her apartment from the view of the treetops.
Agent Detmeier had the opportunity to lead the FBI manhunt in the incident’s immediate aftermath. Maddie’s phone was first analyzed at the forensics lab back in Quantico. The voicemail was only a few words. The voice on the message ran through countless samples and databases to find a source. The words haunted Jim, driving him to relative insanity…but he couldn’t let go. He could hear the words when he closed his eyes to sleep. He could hear it when he looked at old pictures of his beautiful girlfriend when she was alive. It was a constant. Those words.
J.D. ACROSTIC. J.D. ACROSTIC. CALL HER. CALL HER. NOT IN TIME. NOT THIS TIME.
Alex knew he had to stop looking at his phone so much during the workday. People live their lives. Nobody waits for the perfect moment to message anyone back. It just happens organically. So Alex waited on the receiving end for the notifications to pop off each day, avoiding everything from work to his close friends and loved ones.
He repeatedly told himself in the spaces between conversations that this monotonous dedication would pay off, eventually. While the conversations with Anna kept his pulse up daily, the other regular occurrences of Alex’s existence went back to a steady beat. After the kitchen blowup, things with Andrea cooled to Cold War levels of detente. A rhythm started again between the two: wake, word, dinner, and sleep. After Andrea collapsed in bed, it was Alex’s time. It was his ecstasy. For him, the day began around 9:30 pm each night.
Andrea and Alex got along. They even managed to have sex with each other in early December out of the blue. Andrea seemed to enjoy it well enough, even if Alex superimposed Anna’s perfect breasts onto Anna’s in his mind to help him finish. He still found time to look at the photo at some point each day.
As if that wasn’t motivation enough, Alex kept to his word to continue writing. Short stories and even a little poetry were the easiest to write. Compared to the short stories, Anna made sure to point out how terrible that poetry was in comparison. After a few more positive comments, Alex even considered writing a short novel but decided the continued positive reinforcement from her felt more immediate and thus more essential.
It was two weeks before Alex got another unsolicited photo of Anna. This time, it was her backside. He figured that particular shot might be coming because she kept talking about how she planned to see a tattoo artist to get a large piece done on her back. Anna told him to “wait and see” the exact spot on the backside of her body, so it was almost no surprise when she finally sent Alex a photo of her newest tattoo on his way into his office one cold Monday before Christmas.
The pic came without warning and comment, like the first one. The only thing Anna wrote underneath the pic was “new tattoo.” It covered from the top of her head to the middle of her thigh. Alex saw a beautiful Japanese Oak Tree that covered almost the entire right side of her back. The tree’s roots stretched to her buttocks, ending in the middle of her right cheek. She was fully nude but only saw a portion of the side of her breast. Either her husband Rodney took the photo, or she set it up on a timer. She smiled at the camera, proud of the tree and the artist’s work. Alex wished he could see more of her breasts but was not mad at first glance at her ass.
Alex thought it made sense that she would get a Japanese Maple tattoo. He remembered she told him that she planted three in the front yard of her house on the outskirts of Richmond. The message notification for the image came at a stoplight four minutes from his office in Lorton, VA. He wanted to respond before getting to work, where he would be easily distracted by it all morning as if he hadn’t already.
Alex could message her from his car’s ApplePlay if he had her cell phone number. When he asked Anna for her number the previous week, she said, “Absolutely not.” This “thing” was only a conversation transacted through Facebook Messenger. He wasn’t stoked about that but probably thought it best to play it safe, at least for their sake. Andrea was already suspicious of what he was doing on his phone all hours of the night. She probably had a similar situation with Rodney.
Alex just wanted a quiet parking lot with as few cars around as possible to park, what he called “thinking lots.” Every time he drove into a nearly empty parking lot, at least one car idly sat amongst the rows of empty spaces. The person inside always looked like they were contemplating the profound theories of the universe or the meaning of life. He found one a mile from work and took a few minutes to respond appropriately to what the picture deserved. He parked on the opposite end of a row of spaces adjacent to the shopping center’s ice cream shop and tax center.
Alex felt nervous for the first time since the first conversation in November. Dizziness hit as he turned off the car’s engine. The windows rolled down to let the fresh air in despite the chilling temperatures. Had he eaten? Why was he so nervous typing to her? He’d done it hundreds of times in the month or so they had conversed. For the last few weeks, it was a nightly event. Why now?
He wrote and deleted fourteen separate message responses before finally sending what he felt was the best. Anna responded almost immediately. That was very much unlike her. It usually took minutes or hours to respond to messages during the day.
Alex wasn’t sure what that meant. Was she sending her ass out to other people? Or her breasts? More? Was this not something special? He could not surmise the amount of time and effort spent chatting up another person. He had to know.
Alex sat in the parking lot silently for ten minutes. He stared at that last series of messages over and over again.
“Makes me think I made a mistake…”
“I’m sorry you misread.”
“Talk to you at some point, I am sure.”
As much as he tried to shake it, Alex couldn’t stop rereading those final messages. When he realized he would be dangerously close to being late on one of the random days required to return to the office, Alex turned his car back on and drove the remaining mile to the building in silence. He thought about responding when he parked the car but thought better. Her status on Messenger showed she wasn’t online anyway. Or maybe she blocked him. Either way, it was best to leave it alone.
How dare she say that. How could it not be more? How could somebody send those pics and say those things without meaning anything more? It made him feel cheap and unwanted as if everything meant nothing. Uneasy feelings swelled around his body like his skin could lurch forward unprovoked. Walking out of his car, Alex spit on the ground, jammed his cell phone back into his pocket, and walked briskly into the building to stop himself from crying.
The phone stayed pocketed the entire workday. It came out again after work in the relative comfort of the shared apartment. Alex’s heart sank when he opened it and found zero messages. It did mean nothing, then. A short fantasy. A lucky roll of the dice. It was now gone. A digital “fuck you.” That didn’t stop him from staring at his phone for the remainder of the evening, waiting for a response. Alex barely touched the dinner Andrea prepared, which set her off. To Alex, the increasingly loud and verbally abusive accusations hurled at him felt muted and blurry to what he was focusing on, as if he was Charlie Brown and Andrea was the mother making squawking noises in the background. When he apologized later while Andrea was in bed, she said “OK” and rolled over, stifling tears. Alex closed his eyes and shook his head after that response. He even managed to stifle his tears welling up and returned to the living room to resume looking at his phone for a message that never came. So much for the closer relationship with his girlfriend. It was fun while it lasted.
The good feelings kept rolling. Still, no messages – empty screens and empty feelings pervaded everything like a rolling midwestern storm.
Alex continued to act like an asshole to everyone around him for the remainder of the work week before his December leave kicked in. The yearly holiday trek south to Williamsburg meant a solid week of family time. It felt needed this year. It meant distraction in a different setting because it looked grim on the homefront. He appeared visually unkempt and verbally abrasive towards his colleagues. At home, it was no better. Conversations between the couple almost became non-existent. Andrea told Alex she would sign up for a “Sip n’ Paint” art class at the center down the street on Tuesdays on top of the weekly girls’ happy hour on Thursdays. He grunted in approval. That was fine. More time to grovel alone. More time to attempt to look away from the two pics he had of her. He tried vainly to delete them but couldn’t muster the strength.
All the while, he saw Anna was online, resisting the urge to message her. He had more pride than that, right? It’s hard to convince yourself of that truth while feeling weak continuously. Is it better to be dead than left on read? There wasn’t a mental consensus on the answer to that.
He wanted to message her and tell her he was sorry. For what, he didn’t know, but the urge to do so and reinvigorate a conversation clung to his insides like plaster, making him more angry and bitter in the process. The idea of deleting her from his friend list also crossed his mind. The fantasy of telling her exactly why she was losing out on his friendship, or more, was the mental masturbatory emission oscillating in and out of his mind each night that shitty work week. That’s what he wanted to do.
He did none of those things. Everything was quiet. The anger only got angrier. The bitterness felt like a clutched fist packed so tightly he could draw blood. And still – nothing from Anna.
Alex left for his parents’ house in Williamsburg late on Thursday, the 23rd. All in all, he planned to stay there through the new year before going back to work on the 3rd of January. On the way down, Alex listened to an impressive array of depressing music. He spent the entire day before leaving, avoiding any closeouts and crafting the perfect blend of catchy and melancholy tunes, all with the common theme of sad and punishing lyrics about love, loss, and general sad-bastard behavior.
The morning he left for the break was the first time he thought about the “L Word” about Anna. He didn’t believe it was true. There was no way anything like that would happen. It took him nearly a year of dating Andrea before saying he loved her. Did he still? Despite all the drama over the last month, he thought so. That made the idea even worse.
That morning was also the first time he thought Andrea would or could leave him. Andrea decided to stay in town and relax. Going down to spend a solid week with his parents was never her kind of fun, anyway. She mentioned her parents might come from Baltimore. They kissed deep and hard before he left that evening. Another tear swept below their cheek as they did and said goodbye. He wasn’t sure why, but Alex did not like that.
Driving deep in the night on I-95, the playlist covered every sad hit from The Smiths, The Cure, Radiohead, and Nine Inch Nails. He thought about Andrea, the crying kiss, and the absence of nightly textual relations with Anna. When he arrived at his parents’ around 11 pm, he stayed with them to chat about work and life. He put his family’s presents under the tree, grateful that the large gifts for his sister Tess’s kids did not break. Her clan, thankfully, would not arrive until tomorrow afternoon, leaving Alex a solid morning to brood.
When he finally pulled his phone out, around midnight, sitting in his old bedroom, Alex saw a notification for Messenger on his phone. He nearly pulled a muscle opening the app, only to find it was his old friend from high school, Marty “Farty” Donnager. Alex and Marty worked together after high school at a fancy restaurant in town, Fat Canary, while saving money at community college. Eventually, Alex went to James Madison, while his dishwashing friend transferred to Old Dominion in Norfolk. It wasn’t who he wanted, yet Alex replied to Farty anyway. Maybe the sensation would feel like he was having his nightly conversation with Anna.
Alex regretted the conversation almost immediately. Fuck. In what world was Farty moving past him and rocketing along the way?
Wow. Farty was a well-to-do family man, and Alex was barely in a relationship, pining over somebody who didn’t want him. He guessed he could make it until New Year’s with his family. Without Andrea here and the nightly conversations with Anna, he focused on spending time with his mom, dad, and sister’s family before the event.
The next few days came and went. No messages. Tess’s family came for two days to enjoy Christmas, leaving on the morning of the 27th. Alex spent the next two days helping his parents with various projects around the house. He moved boxes into the dusty attic and helped his father organize the garage. His conversations with his girlfriend became shorter and shorter. Her parents came on the 26th from Baltimore to spend a few days with her. At least, that’s what she said happened. After the way Andrea kissed him before he left, Alex was never sure what would happen over the break. It did not come as a surprise when Andrea sent him a message saying she was moving out of their apartment before he returned from his parents. The parents were there with their cars to help her move everything out.
When she broke the bad news, the first thought was to freak out and scream. But it never came. The only feeling at that moment was understanding and a sense of release. Of course, there were apologies. They were both sorry. She hoped they would stay friends. Alex didn’t say that back, though. She also said she would always love him, which brought them both to tears. She planned to move back to Baltimore with her parents before deciding what to do next, which made perfect sense. Andrea planned to get everything out by the time he came back on Sunday.
Before she hung up the phone, she asked him if there was anyone else – any reason why things deteriorated so badly. She wondered if he was talking to somebody on the phone all that time in the last month. “Maybe that would explain why you have been so vacant in almost everything else, Alex. That would at least make me feel a little bit better about all of this,” she said through muffled sobs. He decided to lie to her one last time. A sweet lie that would keep her at ease and keep him from having anything broken to pieces when he got back on Sunday afternoon.
“Of course not, Andrea. I’m just sorry things didn’t work out. I’ll talk to you soon.”
Alex hung up that phone call on the 29th and went into the bathroom to let out a few tears and scream into a stack of towels from the closet—a throbbing headache formed in the back of his head. After wiping the moisture away from his eyes, his first thought was to check his phone. No messages. Fuck. He needed a drink desperately, finding only a few non-suspiciously out-of-date beers in the back of his parent’s fridge. It would do. Alex was ready when New Year’s Eve came around two days later. If he planned to have a few drinks at Marty’s party before the Andrea breakup happened, he wanted to get blackout drunk now. Alex booked a hotel at the Hampton Inn directly adjacent to the distillery and told his parents he wanted to be safe because of the plan to tie one on. They understood.
Alex wrote and deleted a series of messages in his phone’s notes section to Anna the evening before leaving for Marty’s event. Marty said the place planned to have a “bitching spread,” complete with an open bar and heavy appetizers. They messaged each other and planned to meet at eight. He deleted the messages before putting on an old suit jacket he kept from high school that matched his khaki pants and headed out the door for the rideshare to check into his hotel room. No regrets. No feelings. Just alcohol. He brought a few airline bottles of Jack Daniels purchased earlier that day to down before leaving his room after he checked in just in case the party was boring.
Copper Fox Distillery is best known for its Virginia-made craft whiskey. They are the self-proclaimed “Home of American Single Malt” in how specific locales in Scotland held that title. It was a perfect place to decompress the previous month. He could put both behind him with enough luck and rye. Alex loved whiskey and now had a perfect excuse (his complete lack of love life/motivation/everything) and a backup plan (get blackout drunk, puke, rally, and crawl back to the hotel less than a football field away from the bar). Perfect.
Alex felt good after a few hours at the distillery. He mixed and mingled with Marty’s friends and had a few drinks. He told Marty’s colleagues of his early work origins as a busboy and dishwasher just after high school. Everyone had a few laughs. Even Marty enjoyed having Alex around. He had a few more drinks. Alex even initiated an exciting conversation about ancient Rome with a bartender on break in the cold. The few cigarettes he bummed him were worth the conversation he stumbled through about the “Year of Four Emperors,” something he couldn’t quite remember from college. The time was 11 pm. He had a few more drinks.
Alex was utterly hammered by 11:30 pm. To his surprise, he managed to get shitfaced and forget all of his problems, issues, and heartache. That is until his phone buzzed with a notification. It was Facebook Messenger. He clutched his phone, set his drink down, and stumbled outside to light the last cigarette bummed by Mr. Roman Empire using a small promotional box of matches from Copper Fox. He squinted his eyes and steadied himself against the cold brick wall of the building before opening the text.
That managed to sober Alex up quite a bit—enough to be coherent.
Alex returned his phone in his coat pocket and looked at the blanket of stars. The night was surprisingly cold and clear. He could feel the chill against his body, even with the liquor fusing into his bloodstream. The world started spinning more than usual as the focus went in and out. As the clock struck midnight, he hunched over and puked out an evening’s worth of whiskey, crab dip, and cubed cheese.
Happy New Year.
Stage Three: Bargaining
January 2, 2022
After Saturday’s recovery, Alex was ready for Sunday to leave and drive outside of Richmond to the Shortpump Mall and meet up with Anna. He didn’t think she would bring her husband and kid with him, at least not after what she said on New Year’s Eve. Yet the possibility of a husband meetup and subsequent beatdown was still on the table. The risk-reward scenario played and came up heads: he would proceed. The midnight puker extraordinaire spent most of Saturday hung over, rereading the messages from the previous day while sipping on blue Powerade and eating slightly stale crackers.
Alex said goodbye to his family around 8:30 in the morning and drove the brisk hour to the mall. He arrived around 9:50 am due to unforeseen traffic around I-64 just past Dumbarton. The mall was closed for another hour, so Alex parked near the front next to the massive Cheesecake Factory and sat in his car. Another “thinking lot,” he thought and smiled silently.
After scrolling through his phone for thirty minutes and taking a brief nap using his coat as a blanket, the mall finally opened. He went inside, found the Starbucks near the atrium, and messaged Anna on Messenger that he arrived. He got a venti drip coffee and sipped on it until she showed up. He thought the mall was surprisingly crowded for the Sunday after the new year. There were lots of families shopping in stores, perhaps using gift certificates they received over the holidays. He got a phone notification at 11:29 am from Anna.
Alex looked up from his phone to see Anna standing five feet away. Finally, there in front of him after all these years and the conversations. It was Anna in the flesh. She was taller than he remembered, but then again, they had not physically seen each other since they were children. Her curly brown hair sat just atop her neckline, where a flattering red sweater hugged her tight frame, especially her breasts. The black pants looked vintage and expensive. She completed the outfit with what looked like Doc Marten boots made of vegan leather. She smiled nervously and sat down.
Alex couldn’t stop staring at her mouth. She had a brilliant red shade of lipstick that starkly contrasted her white teeth. Of all the places to look at Anna, he wondered why he stared at her lips and teeth.
“So, how are you?” she said. Again, she tried to hide her nervousness. Her hands played with her gloves a few times before settling on her lap.
“I’m good. A good drive up here. Should be easy-breezy for the rest of the way up to D.C.” he hated himself for saying “Easy-Breezy.” “Can I get you some coffee?”
“Oh, no. I can get it. I just wanted to sit down before running up there. Be right back.” She got up and turned around. Alex couldn’t help staring now at her ass, thinking about the Japanese Maple tattoo that eloquently wrapped around her backside. She returned a few minutes later with a hot tea.
“So, here we are,” she said as she sipped slowly on the hot liquid. “It’s kinda crazy, right?
“For sure. This meetup is over twenty years coming, right?” They both laughed nervously together. Perhaps more nervous than either imagined. They continued the conversation for another twenty minutes. Unfortunately, it was painfully awkward. Alex kept staring at her teeth. Anna kept fuddling with her gloves on her lap while she wrestled up conversation points. Alex gave his Starbucks cup a full body massage as he tried to talk about anything other than his recent breakup with Andrea and the next few weeks at work. There were a few awkward laughs here and there, but nothing that felt like the beginning of a Hallmark Christmas movie like Alex hoped.
Eventually, Anna excused herself to go to the bathroom. Alex let out a deep sigh when she was out of sight. He wondered what to discuss next, googling “coffee date conversation topics” in desperation. Most importantly, he worried he was blowing this chance to engage with her. When else would the stars align with them in the same area simultaneously? He continued to mess with his phone when he received a notification. Surprisingly, it came from Anna.
Anna came back to the table two minutes later. Alex faked like he would continue talking on Messenger before laughing and putting his phone away. They both laughed at that. Tensions loosened, and the conversation grew relaxed. They eventually managed to talk like they always had. A phone application no longer feels like a replacement or extension of their connection. It was there. It was happening at the moment. It felt real. Alex managed to look away from Anna’s teeth as requested. He did not stare at her chest, even if he joked about it once or twice early on in the conversation. Alex focused on her eyes and how they interacted as they talked. He thought that was something he could never duplicate talking to her online in the small hours.
They managed to grab another pair of drinks. After Alex paid and picked them up at the counter, he turned to find Anna standing before him.
“Let’s walk and talk,” she said. So they did. They took their beverages on the go, strolled around the mall, and window-shopped. He loved how she commented on the price of mundane items like puffy jackets no one would ever wear or the boutique soap store with vegan and gluten-friendly options. While they half-giggled through a Hot Topic near the end of the mall’s easternmost wing, Anna grabbed Alex’s hand to get his attention. The warm feeling that rushed up his spine was akin to his first sight of Anna’s naked chest back in November. He watched her pick a LEGO set for her son at the store.
A quick conversation at the mall in the late morning turned into an early afternoon adventure. By 1:30 pm, Anna looked at her watch in astonishment. “Oh, shit. It’s getting late. I have to get back to the fam,” she said. A slight frown appeared on her face. She touched him again now. This time, it was on his right shoulder. Her brow relaxed as she spoke. “Where are you parked?”
He didn’t want to show his disappointment. “Um. I parked towards the front near the Cheesecake Factory.” He hoped she asked him to walk her to her car at least. A few more minutes in a foreign lot would be worth it. He wasn’t doing anything anyway. What did he have to look forward to when he got back into town? A half-empty apartment? He just hoped she left the ice cube trays.
“I’m parked back by the Dillard’s way on the other side of the mall. We are closer to your car. Can you drive me there?” Alex did not hesitate to say yes. They walked a bit longer until they reached the main entrance and walked outside. It was surprisingly warm for the new year. They got into his car and began the brief drive around Short Pump Town Center Circle to the back of the wall where she parked. Along the way, she made a few cracks about the cleanliness of his vehicle. He didn’t care much. Alex just wanted to savor the moment. After she left the car, who knew how long it would be until they saw each other.
A minute later, they arrived in the back of the mall. The cars were sparse on this side. Most of them sat idle in tiny pockets. “That’s me in the silver BMW.” Of course, she had a vintage silver BMW. It sat in a row all on its own towards the back of the lot between the Dillard’s and the Hyatt House Richmond, a small boutique hotel located within the mall property.
He parked next to her and idled the car. They sat in silence for a few seconds. “Well,” Alex said. “I guess this is it. It’s been a lot of fun, and I h….” Anna stopped him from speaking with her lips. The lips on the mouth he couldn’t stop staring at. The mouth he couldn’t believe he was now kissing. Her tongue came seconds later. Slow at first and then in circular motions around his. It felt like his first kiss all over again but with more experience and knowledge about the opposite sex. Anna motioned for him to turn the car off. He obliged. Nobody was around. Alex guessed this was a lot for a different kind of thinking.
They continued kissing for a few more minutes. All the while, Alex kept scanning beyond her curly hair to see if other cars or mall security were riding about. About five minutes into their make-out session, Alex’s right hand ventured into uncharted territory for Anna’s right breast. She moaned a bit when he grabbed onto her and sucked harder on his lip. She pushed him back.
“Does your seat go back anymore?” She began running her right hand up and down his thigh. It only took her a few seconds to feel him. She felt how hard he was in his blue jeans. He just wanted to be let out like a rabid bat in a cage. Alex moved his chair back as far as possible.
When he finally got into place, Anna unzipped his pants to find Alex standing at full attention. She scanned the lot one last time before swallowing the majority of Alex’s hard cock in her mouth. She moved in rhythmic motions up and down, slowly incorporating her hand into the mix. Alex wasn’t sure what to do other than enjoy what was shaping up to be the best blowjob he ever had. He grabbed the left steering wheel with his left hand for control and set his right hand on top of Anna’s head to set the pace even if she knew what she was doing.
About a minute into it, Alex could start to feel the butterflies travel down his stomach and into his crotch. That old familiar feeling. He was going to bust. Right as he was about to finish in her mouth, Anna promptly stopped, removing both her hand and mouth from Alex’s body. She had a small well of tears in her eyes. She wiped her mouth and looked down.
“I’m sorry, Alex. I can’t finish. I…I’m sorry. I can’t do that. I like you, but I can’t do this. Forgive me. Forget this.” She wiped her mouth one last time with the palm of her hand and her tears with the back of the same before grabbing her purse and exciting Alex’s vehicle without saying a word. She looked briefly at him before getting into her vintage car and speeding away.
Alex stood silently in the parking lot for several minutes with his unzipped pants. His penis was now as flaccid as he thought it would ever be. Leaning back and zipping his pants back up, he let out a giant sigh before turning his car on and exiting the mall towards I-64 and northern Virginia.
“What a fucking disaster,” he said to himself as he drove off. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for it. And now look at me. I’m blue-balled and more confused than fucking ever.” He tried to focus on anything other than what had just transpired on his trip back to the D.C. metro area. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind. As fucked as it was that it happened, he half smiled at the thought of her lips firmly planted on his. A small well of tears formed in his eyes as he approached Interstate 95. He shook it off and focused on the road head. It looked like traffic near the exit.
We’re all just simple fools looking for new and convenient ways to get our rocks off. At least that’s what Alex told himself when he got an unsuspecting instant message from somebody he hadn’t talked to in years. It was the middle of the fall when she messaged him, even if it felt more like winter when she entered his life after years and years of silence.
Anna Renquist.
Jesus Christ. How long had it been since they last spoke to one another? Ten Years? Fifteen? More? He thought about it a lot, but only after the first few conversations did he nail down how long it had been. Looking back at everything that happened, he should have been reading a book about the five stages of grief to better prepare him for everything that would occur throughout two very long and introspective years.
The message seemed harmless enough at First. Let’s go back to the beginning.
Stage One: Denial
November 7, 2021
Alex had a hard time falling asleep lately. That’s an understatement. Alex hadn’t fallen asleep before 2 a.m. in about three weeks. Most of the time, he sat in bed and stared at the ceiling. That never really worked. It often made him more awake because his brain would trick him out of being sleepy. He tried the more modern methods, and those all did about as well as the blank staring into the void. Melatonin did nothing (weed never worked on him, either). Sleep sounds like rain just made him have to pee for some reason. Hell, there were a few nights that he tried to close his eyes and count sheep. None of it worked.
His girlfriend Andrea kept telling him to see a doctor. “Maybe it’s sleep apnea,” she would always say. Alex didn’t think so. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but it wasn’t sleep apnea. He wasn’t highly fit but wasn’t chubby or overweight either. Andrea often teased about his “dad bod,” even if she knew Alex would scowl back at her for several hours before getting over it.
Alex figured the sleep deprivation/voluntary insomnia had something to do with a few things he noted lately:
Lack of motivation at work
Lack of motivation in his relationship
Lack of motivation in his hobbies and interests
Lack of motivation to see his friends and family
A general lack of motivation
On the evening of November 7, Alex felt tired before 2 a.m. for the first time in a long while. The wind picked up late into the evening, with temperatures dipping into the twenties. He lay beside his girlfriend, Andrea, in bed while she snored. He thought about getting up and grabbing something to drink. Watch some TV in the living room. There was always the home office where he worked for some one-on-one time. That could put him to sleep.
No. Alex decided to stay in bed and scroll through his phone in case he might fall asleep. His eyes fluttered a few times while he scrolled through his Facebook feed when a notification popped up. Alex tapped his screen to read who hit him up on Messenger. It was a name he hadn’t heard in years. He couldn’t remember becoming friends with her (upon further inspection later, they became friends back in 2010).
He stood up in the bed to read the message. The time was 11:34 p.m.
Alex stared at the screen for a solid minute. Anna Renquist? As in, childhood friend Anna Renquist? Family friend? He was sure that she babysat him at some point when he was a baby. She was three or four years older, so it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Either way, it’s been a long time since they spoke.
He tried to think about the last time he saw Anna. He remembered seeing her at a get-together at her grandparent’s house at the beginning of the millennium. He remembered arguing about the Battle of Fallujah with Anna’s father as a bright-eyed college student, such as he was back then. He still had strong opinions about the War on Terror, of course, but at least he wasn’t such an arrogant prick about it anymore like he was nearly twenty years ago.
Alex wasn’t part of her family but had been a longtime friend of the Renquists long before he was born. Alex’s father, Jeff, cared for Anna’s grandmother as a young doctor back in the early 1980s, and he stayed close over the years. The doctor visitors from Ms. Renquist’s favorite general practitioner lessened, yet Alex’s father still found a way to come around. Eventually, he had a family of his own and became an unofficial part of the Renquist clan by the mid-1980s when Alex was born.
Alex cleared his throat and finally decided to respond to her. He could be cordial without wondering if it was some solicitation.
Alex felt like an asshole for being so matter-of-fact and to the point. But this was like getting an unsolicited call from a telemarketer. He didn’t know what to expect. It was too late to take it back, so he hoped she would forgive the unpleasantries. The tiny dots moved for nearly a minute before stopping and starting back up again several times. She responded a minute later. The news made him get up from the bed and stand up. Andrea continued to snore, blissfully unaware of anything else going on. Alex looked over and briefly wished he could trade places.
George Renquist was Anna’s uncle. Of the three Renquist brothers, George lived the most exciting life. Instead of following in the family business of plumbers, George chose a life as an independent general contractor-for-hire and all-around handyman. Alex didn’t know how he made his money or if it was ever genuinely reported on his taxes. Of course, none of that mattered anymore. Alex’s dad also did under-the-table doctoring for George over the years.
George was not the healthiest man. He loved to drink and eat. Mostly, though, his vice was drinking. Some of Alex’s earliest memories are sitting on George’s lap while he held a rum and cola cocktail in hand at get-togethers and other Renquiest family functions. He never drank to excess, but you could always tell her where he was in a house from the trailing scent of alcohol. Overlooking his drinking problem, George was a damn good contractor. Although he attended school at the prestigious William and Mary College in Williamsburg, VA, he was self-taught in every aspect of his business. His last girlfriend, Janice, was his bookkeeper and kept all his records straight (including late notices on payment).
Alex assumed his drinking finally got the better of him, or he had a heart attack.
Alex finally fell asleep after the message trailed off around midnight. The sleep came quickly for once. Not that it was perfect, mind you. But sleep is sleep, and Alex needed a few consistent hours to reset his body. He woke up thinking that he should thank Anna for helping him fall asleep, but immediately felt wiser not to. At the very least, a reword of his response. He awoke early that Monday morning and decided to handle the awkward conversation before getting ready for work. Andrea continued to snore.
It was four hours before Anna replied.
She was right. Alex overthought and overanalyzed everything. Alex received the message on his phone after his Zoom meeting at his work. He worked for a small communications firm called JanTec. Most of the staff came into the office one or two days due to the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic, so virtual meetings were held on Mondays and Tuesdays the majority of the time. It was much easier that way. Regardless, Alex disliked what he did with a passion.
Alex stared at his phone in his office for a few minutes before responding. Andrea, who also worked from home in the same office, asked what he was looking at. “It’s nothing, just a message from an old friend.” When she asked who, he mentioned a childhood friend who got in contact with him about a death in the family. She looked him up and down before shrugging in disinterest. She continued to design a newsletter for one of her client’s upcoming email campaigns. Unlike Alex, Andrea loved her job. She was an independent freelancer, after all. True to his fashion and current mental state, Alex both admired and hated this about his girlfriend.
He decided to play it cool on his message back to Anna.
That last stupid comment tasted like shit in his mouth. Sure, he barely knew Anna. It had been years since any communication. He vaguely remembered seeing pictures of her kid and husband on Facebook—otherwise, just radio silence. But something easy about her demeanor made him want to talk to her more. In his therapy sessions later on down the line, he would describe this curated nonchalance as “Bitchy Manic Pixie Dreamgirl Chic.”
He thought about leaving it alone and simply going back to work. He set his phone down and started writing an email to a coworker about an upcoming project. Halfway through his outline for an upcoming meeting, he told his girlfriend he would use the restroom. Safely in his small apartment toilet and standup shower, he decided to be authentic and tell her the truth. Why did he go to the bathroom to respond to a childhood friend?
She responded a few minutes later. This time, Alex was ready for it. He was still in the bathroom, anxiously waiting for a reply. You don’t pour your heart out like that and put your phone away. That declaration demanded a response, even if it was to tell him to fuck off forever. Either way, he was ready.
Work essentially stopped for Alex for the rest of the day. Over half an hour later, he finally exited the bathroom as a person with a purpose. Was he given a purpose? Alex thought it sounded like a homework assignment. Either way, he would do it.
“Hey Andrea, guess what?” Alex was unusually chipper coming back into their small office space.
“Alex, you were in there for a long time; I don’t need to hear about how big of a shit you just took. It’s disgusting, and so are you.” She looked up to gauge his face for any sign of resentment. Sometimes, Alex thought she openly looked for ways to find it, like she got off on it. He cleared his throat and spoke up.
“No, Andrea. It’s not like that. I just wanted to let you know that I will write something tonight. Like something original.” She laughed loudly, making Alex step back towards his desk.
“You’re going to write something?” She was giggling the entire time she got the words out. “You have talked about becoming a writer for our three-year relationship. I have seen exactly one short story in that time, and it wasn’t the best.” This declaration of distaste came from a woman who reads fantasy novels about elven sexual intercourse exclusively.
“Well, I am. Either it’s a poem or a short story. But, whatever it is, I am going to do it. I am committed.” When she asked him what made him want to dust off his old hobby, he said he felt motivated by something somebody said at work. That was a bald-faced lie. The first of a few, he would tell his girlfriend over the next few months. For whatever reason, he wanted to impress Anna.
That night, while Andrea snoozed away with military precision, Alex sat on his couch with his laptop and a notebook he last used several years ago for “interesting writing ideas.” When he found it buried in a drawer underneath a large stack of his 2019 and 2020 taxes and a stack of cashed checks dating back to 2016, he hoped there would be a holy grail of information to draw from.
Nope. There was almost nothing. Only four pages had any writing, and most of it was illegible. There was a note dating back to 2016 for a “short story – hearing neighbor through walls – or poem – whatever.” Maybe he could write a short story about a man in an apartment complex who heard something he shouldn’t have through the walls of his home. Not too bad.
He started slow at first. Soon, the words came to him in the old familiar way he knew and used to love. He started the evening writing to music with headphones. He enjoyed the gentle click-clack of his laptop keyboard more and turned the music off. It was soothing, even if he made the same noises during the workday. Those always sounded annoying. This was bliss. His fingers, slow at first, kept to a machine gun rapidly after the first half an hour of writing.
He drew from a bit of his own life to help round out the short story. He figured he would use the backdrop of his rocky relationship with Andrea to create a basis for what would happen. Essentially, a single man hears a couple arguing night after night through the wall of his apartment. Over time, he got used to it and even set his evenings to the late-night yelling matches. One night, the fight began as usual, around 10 in the evening. Then, about twenty minutes after it ended, he heard a series of loud crashes and more screaming. It didn’t seem like a fight and more like a struggle. Was it an argument or a break-in? Were they in danger? The man had to decide. He left the end ambiguous and wrapped up the story’s eight thousand words around 2 a.m. He closed the laptop and strolled from the office past the bathroom to the last room down the hall. He collapsed into bed and closed his eyes. He fell asleep almost immediately.
He awoke nearly five hours later and couldn’t wait to send it to Anna.
Was he hallucinating, or was Anna being a little flirty with him?
Anna did not get back to him for nearly two days. The anticipation ate at him like a cancer. The hardest part was playing it cool and not messaging her asking if she had read “From the Walls.” It was a good thing he didn’t have her phone number. Otherwise, he would have texted for an update on his latest opus.
He kept calm, at least in his mind. When he and Andrea ate dinner that evening, she got on his case about staring at his phone every five seconds. “This isn’t like you,” she said. “I don’t know why you keep staring at your phone, but I’d like you to stop.” Alex ignored her request. Soon, though, she was fast asleep, and the “writer” spent the evening pretending not to care about his phone by doing other things. At one point, he cleaned his entire kitchen while his phone sat idly on the counter with every notification known to his iPhone on and ready to go off.
Did she not write back because it was so dogshit? Was she not responding as a non-violent form of protest against Alex’s supposed hobby? Several similar thoughts ran through his head. He settled on her being too busy or overcome with his writing quality. He knew it wasn’t the latter, but in his mind, he would accept anything to move on theoretically.
She got back to him the following afternoon. By then, all pretenses were gone. Alex was a complete emotional wreck. He almost fell out of his chair when his phone dinged on his desk. The rejuvenated writer immediately rushed to answer it in the restroom. He didn’t even pause to excuse himself in front of Andrea.
But he wasn’t sure if he was OK with it. He was almost sure of it. He closed his eyes and waited for the response. The chat bubbles seemed to flash in front of his eyes for hours. He finally got his response three minutes later. All his other work would have to wait. There was only this response at this point in his life. This moment. Nothing else. He wasn’t sure if it was a make-or-break point, but it felt like one.
“YES!” Alex yelled enthusiastically from the confines of the bathroom. Andrea did not hear him because she had her headphones on while working. He couldn’t believe it. A (relatively) rave review about something he wrote? And from somebody with some taste. That meant something, too.
Sure, she’s a mom and married with a kid and everything. But she had it. Well, at least from the recent pictures she posted on her Facebook page. Alex wasn’t sure if he was so excited because he found her attractive or because his recent conversations with her made him feel interested, wanted, and restored.
She loved something he did. Love may be a strong word. But she didn’t outright say it sucked. Andrea only had a passing interest in his writing, even if it was a poem he wrote for her that got her to go out with him all those years ago. Anna rightly guessed that it drew from real life. He guessed it was hard to hide. The words spilled out on the page. Alex wondered whether he was talking too much about his personal life with her. It probably didn’t matter. But it could mean everything. He tried to shrug it off and continue to play it cool.
Alex thought very carefully about his response. He wanted to go with his gut and be truthful while simultaneously remembering that he was in a relationship, and she was married with a kid and lived hundreds of miles away. Alex mulled it over for another thirty seconds before responding. He didn’t want to lose the pregnant moment.
There was an infiniteness to talking to Anna. He couldn’t quite explain it. Time stood still and moved too fast at the same time. Maybe it was an illusion. Feelings work that way, especially when you haven’t been given time and attention by somebody you love. Then somebody who talks to you comes along and breathes some new life into an otherwise mundane existence. He wasn’t sure what he felt, but it was something more than a casual conversation.
In whatever multiverse where Alex would shoot his shot, he did so. Fuck it. If it all came crashing down, Alex surmised, he would be down one old family friend and a Facebook contact. He didn’t even have a phone number. It would be as if she continued to not exist like the last decade of his existence. He gulped once while he sat motionless on the toilet seat in his bathroom and responded.
Alex returned from the restroom with a broad smile on his face. He let out a cheerful breath and returned to his seat to answer emails.
“Wow, must have been a good one,” Andrea said. She reached across from her desk to touch his shoulder. Alex was alarmed at first, then grabbed her hand and turned around.
“It was. It was great.” Andrea wasn’t sure she liked the smile on his face, especially after he said he just took a giant shit in the bathroom. It was a more comprehensive smile than she had ever seen in their dating years. It was an idiot’s smile. She once again shrugged it off and continued working. She didn’t hear Alex complain once for the rest of the evening. He walked around with a satisfactory grin that made her question what was happening in that bathroom. She had never been the jealous type, so why start now? Alex made sure to kiss her on the forehead before she fell asleep. Andrea thought she saw him drinking coffee after dinner. Why? He already had enough trouble sleeping, so inviting that much caffeine into your bloodstream seemed almost ridiculous. And on a work night, no less. She wasn’t sure why, but she went to sleep uneasy.
Anna and Alex talked that night. Anna initiated the conversation around 9:30 at night. It started slow initially but picked up momentum after a few interactions about what each other did during the day. Alex had nothing but positive things to say. Anna had more to say about fulfilling orders for her bakery side business. With Thanksgiving coming up, it was one of the more busy times of the year. On top of all the duties of a stay-at-home mom and wife to a working husband, she needed to figure out the rationale for chatting so late.
The conversation continued for another three hours. They talked for roughly the same length the next night. Then, the night after. In his mind, Alex knew that pursuing anything more than casual conversation was a bad idea. No. It was a terrible idea. He messaged her late into the evening for the fourth night in a row.
They talked about everything and nothing at once. Over time, and after hours of conversation, Anna’s walls crumbled. This was no easy test for Alex, but he was engaged. He was methodical. And most of all, he was committed. For what, he wasn’t sure. He found himself emotionally invested in whatever these conversations were forming into.
Anna opened up more about her personal life. Her son, whom she adored more than anything on earth, was a popular topic of conversation. The older yet unmarried/childless Alex could do nothing to agree with her musings about raising a kid. Nonetheless, he stayed interested without sounding like a prick for not having one himself. She even talked a bit about her husband, Rodney, and her current struggles with him.
Two minutes later, he found out exactly what it was. Apparently, for Anna, it was a naked photo she took of her breasts. Alex couldn’t believe his eyes. He had to blink a few times to make sure it was real. Alex didn’t respond at first. He started at the screen for a solid minute before doing anything. He could feel sweat forming on the top of his brow.
He zoomed in to get a better look at it. Although it was a reflection from the mirror and not an authentic nude “selfie,” he got the picture. Anna’s breasts looked like something you saw in old dirty magazines he stole from his dad’s stash he kept under the bed. It was not the over-inflated crap that saturated pornography online nowadays. That was all easy and readily available. But it was all the same-identical girls with the same tits making the same faces at the camera, with or without a guy giving her the business end of his over-inflated dick.
Her nipples looked like two giant erasers, sitting atop two mounds of flesh he wasn’t sure were fake or not. He didn’t care. They were perfect. To be that perky in your early 40s would be a feat of bodily engineering he could not fathom. He looked over guiltily to his girlfriend, who continued to snore away, blissfully unaware. Feeling the guilt rising and his crotch turning hot, Alex got up to go to the bathroom. It was hard for him to walk. By then, his penis was almost fully erect through his basketball shorts. He could feel the heat continue to grow like a lit ruse up his spine. The sweat grew to full-on beaded droplets coming down his face.
He got to the bathroom and locked the door. The impulse to use his hands on himself was more significant than ever felt. Despite the ever-increasing urge to touch himself, he thought it courteous to reply. After all, he just received an unsolicited gift that will keep on giving in his mind for months, if not years, to come. He screenshotted the photo just in case she recalled it before responding.
The conversation continued like she didn’t just send a nude photo to Alex a few minutes ago. Alex, who graduated with a history degree, weighed in on the 1945 Dresden fire bombings. He even recommended a book he read a while back about the end of the war and its impact on German society.
Alex could not get a read on this woman. First, she showed him her breasts; then she started pontificating on the atrocities of World War II as if she pulled all that information out of her back pocket. Even after hours of conversation on topics he couldn’t fathom remembering, she was an enigma. Not the same girl he remembered all those years ago. Alex thought that it was human nature to change a bit over time. Some do it more gradually and gracefully than others. But Anna? She was something special.
The conversation fizzled around 2 a.m. Neither Alex nor Anna mentioned the nude photo at all for the remainder of the conversation. When Anna told Alex she was going to bed, he told her to have a good night and pleasant sleep. He even wished her a good day, fulfilling bakery orders tomorrow. He then proceeded to masturbate the minute the conversation ended vigorously. The time it took for him to whip his dick out could have been a world record if there was one for such a thing. It took less than a minute for him to cum. He created a secret folder in his phone for the photo, masturbated again, and crawled into bed. He fell asleep immediately.
The conversations went deeper. Longer. Sometimes, the talks went well into 3 a.m. Yet when sleep came, it was the best sleep in memory, even if for only a few hours. They didn’t talk every day at first—maybe a few interactions here and there during the day. Soon enough, they chatted for a few hours collectively during the day and through the small hours of the evening at night.
They talked about music, art, and film. Most of their favorites only partially met in the middle. Anna knew when Alex was bullshitting, so the thin veneer of constantly agreeing with her picks stopped quickly. It took very little time for him to adjust and be truthful about his interests outside of writing. Their disagreements were few, which made each conversation feel like a refreshing oasis in a desert of daily mini-fights and micro-escalations.
He always started at his home base in bed next to Andrea each time they talked. After a half hour or so, with Andrea solidly asleep, he moved out of the bedroom into the living room to chat into the evening. Alex even lit a candle a few times to “set the mood.” Sometimes, when the conversation approached mild levels of flirtation, he would bring out his computer to keep conversing with her while he touched himself to the saved picture she sent.
God bless technology.
Alex kept telling himself he was getting the best sleep of his life. In reality, his appearance and attitude made more than a few people notice, including his girlfriend and people at work. During those few days he went into the office, some of his colleagues noted the raccoon-like ring around his eyes. Despite a chipper demeanor, Alex was mentally and physically exhausted without even knowing it.
Worse yet, he grew increasingly distant with his girlfriend, Andrea. At first, she commented a few times on his cell phone habits. Those habits were never fantastic, but now it was almost as if they were connected or sewn together. Every time she saw him sitting on the couch alone, plowing away on his phone, a renewed fight began.
It became more fodder for the conversation he would inevitably have with Anna later in the evening. Like a comedian observing people shop at a grocery store, Alex’s fights with Andrea were a great source of material. In his eyes, it was the perfect way to keep the conversation from going stale.
Alex knew that the manufactured disdain was all coming from his end. Despite her focus on work and sleep, Andrea never gave him a real reason to have so much disdain.
“Did you ever think I am sleeping so much because we have nothing to say to each other?” Andrea remarked one evening in December while they cleaned up from dinner. Alex kept loading dishes into the dishwasher for a few seconds, silently staring at her.
“Look, I don’t know why you are sleeping so much. But it’s like it’s 9 p.m., and you turn into a pumpkin.” He thought about how he could turn the knife more. “I’d love to do more with you in the evenings, especially on weekends. It doesn’t matter what day it is; I’m alone in the evenings.”
Andrea looked like she was about to cry. She looked away and sniffed a few times, holding back tears. “You know, sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, and you aren’t there. What are you doing? Where are you doing? And most importantly, who the hell are you talking to? Are you hiding something from me?”
Of course, Alex was very much hiding something from her. The only thing he could do at that moment was deny everything. “Andrea, I’m in the living room because I don’t want to stare at the ceiling for hours waiting to fall asleep. This is a small apartment, and we have one bed. You are a bit of a loud sleeper, which is OK, so I want to ensure I am exhausted before coming back to sleep with you.” Alex used his hands to illustrate the size of their room.
“Yeah, speaking of, am I not attractive to you?” Alex thought very carefully about what he would say next. Andrea was attractive. She was beautiful. He always thought she was pretty. He remembers seeing her from across a bar in DC when they first met. For a bar called the “Ugly Mug,” she was the hottest one there. He remembered briefly telling her that joke before buying her a drink. He smiled a bit and remembered why he fell in love with her in the first place. Then he remembered the accusations and decided to lay into her.
Yes, she was attractive. But there’s no adventure in seeing her ass or breasts when she gets out of the shower. It’s routine.
“Yes, of course, I do, Andrea,” he said convincingly. Her head moved to one side as if she knew he would return with a conditional “but” to finish his statement. She was right.
“But we haven’t been hot to trot for each other in a while. Sleeping is one thing, but our lack of togetherness is another. We act like the perfect couple when we are together with our friends at a party. But at night, what are we? Are we separate people?
“What do you mean separate people?” Andrea stopped cleaning up and set a dish down. She took two steps towards Alex and made him back into the kitchen corner with the sink on the left and the dishwasher on the right. She had him cornered. “So, our relationship is solely based on how often I fuck you?” Of course, it wasn’t, but they hadn’t slept together in two or three months.”
“Of course not, Andrea,” he said with concern. It felt genuine. “It’s not like that. I worry that we aren’t spending enough time together.
“Well, look at yourself. You spent all your time glued to that goddamn phone. Where would there be time for me, sleep or not?” She had a point, and he hated it. He looked at her with a dumb look that said he had nothing left in the emotional tank to empty. She threw a dish towel at him that he caught in mid-air. “Fine, Alex. I love you, but you’ve been pissing me the fuck off lately. Do whatever it is on your phone if it makes you happy. I hope you are telling the truth about everything.”
“Andrea, I do love you, and I am. It’s just a coping mechanism. I know scrolling is bad for most, but it’s soothing for me. That’s all I am doing: a few Wikipedia articles here and there. I can also show you my Duolingo score if you don’t believe I am also re-learning Spanish. I want to be productive with my time as I deal with this insomnia, you know?” He did not have those Duolingo scores but figured he would gamble with another lie. What’s one more?
“OK, Alex. I love you. Please work on coming to bed earlier or see a doctor about it. I worry about you.” She kissed him on the cheek and went back to the bedroom.
“I love you too, Andrea,” Alex said, kissing her back. He couldn’t believe everything that just happened. How many times does that make for the stretch of the truth? There are too many to count. For a minute, he even believed what he said. Either way, there was plenty of stuff to discuss with Anna that evening.
A new writing series highlighting the ways we say goodbye to one another. 250 words or less. Sometimes, that is all it takes. These stories are works of fiction. Some are inspired by real events. [Main Page]
“You’re stupid fucking game is CLEARLY more important than us.” Rose stared straight at him. She wore a form-fitting dress and heels. Her makeup looked impeccable. She even wore the new skimpy pair of underwear from Victoria’s Secret for a “just in case” scenario. Her boyfriend clearly forgot that it was date night.
Jim sat there, feigning interest in the conversation. He still wore the sweatpants and stained sweatshirt he put on the minute he got home from work an hour ago. Why was she bothering him? After all, these rebel scum are not going to die without the help of his upgraded Darth Vader character avatar. He already maxed out all his characters with weapons and upgrades. This was his time to shine.
“Fuck you, Jim. I hope you enjoy your game, asshole.” She slammed the door shut, rattling the adjacent wall where is limited edition Empire Strikes Back movie poster. She continued to yell in the hallway. A minute later, her Honda Civic sputtered to life, zooming to a galaxy far, far way. He didn’t need to know it was over. He could feel her hate flowing through him.
Jim paused the game and walked to the poster, fixing it straight. He knew the mistake he just made, powerless to do anything. He stared at the door and wiped away a solid tear, holding back the full emotion. He could use that in his next few rounds. “I know,” he said and unpaused the game.
A new writing series highlighting the ways we say goodbye to one another. 250 words or less. Sometimes, that is all it takes. These stories are works of fiction. Some are inspired by real events. [Main Page]
It’s not easy being told that your girlfriend of five years wants to break up with you, especially if you’re in the middle of cumming on her face.
Everything seemed to be great. We could anticipate each other’s moves. So why the fuck did I not see this coming? She told me she loved me in my car LESS THAN AN HOUR before she broke the bad news.
Here’s how it went down:
After we got home, we started getting frisky. She was finishing going down on me, stroking me off to finish the job. She always did it this way because it’s how I liked it. Soon my breathing became labored, and I readied myself for the climax. Just as I was about to give my last measure of devotion, she looked up at me (not stopping, mind you) and said, “I think I want to break up.”
What. The. Fuck.
At first, I thought she was lying, but her face said it all. I wanted to stop, but it was too late. I simultaneously ejaculated into her hair while barely getting out a look of overwhelming confusion, anger, and sadness. After cleaning up and talking, she left an hour later.
We did fuck again a few times after the breakup. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t bad. It was just sex. Every time we finished, she gave me the same look she gave me that day. That look said it all: I could never REALLY love you.
Part of the Seven Deadly Sins Short Story Series. What is it?
This is the story of Cliff and Sarah.
The story format is Instructable.
Part I
How to Ruin Your Relationship
Hello instructable users! Are you in a stable relationship and are looking to royally fuck it up? Are you tired of people giving you “life hacks,” when they themselves can’t seem to put a pair of pants on alone?
Then look no further. Thanks to my asshole husband (soon to be ex-husband), I have a step by step process of how to ruin your relationship together. I’ll show you how somebody can go from an ambitious and upstart “man-of-the-century” to fat, alcoholic, degenerate who can’t pay his phone bell. For the sake of protecting his name for the next round of our lawyers and child custody, I will call my husband “Cliff.” Why? Because that’s what he fucking fell off of over the last six months.
My name is Sarah. This is my life instructable.
Materials:
A once-ambitious man/woman (for this scenario, we will use “Cliff”)
Real life people problems
A child
A high-powered job or profession
Home mortgage
Copious quantities of alcohol
A sizeable severance package
Step 1: Meet a Significant Other
The first step is the most important of all! It might seem obvious, but I want to be as thorough as possible for this instructable. I think those are the ones that get the most votes, after all.
Anyways, it’s important for this process to find somebody and fall in love with them. You don’t necessarily have to get married to them, but it surely helps. That is what Cliff and I did a mere eight months after meeting each other in a coffee shop. More on that later. I thought we married for love. I never thought it was for “convenience.” That should have been my first warning sign. Unfortunately, that is an entirely different instructable.
As a side note to this first step, I want to tell you: Don’t have a favorite song. Just don’t. Don’t listen to it. Don’t dance to one at your wedding ceremony. It’s the first thing you’ll do as a married couple, but the last thing you will want to remember. Once it’s over, you will end up hearing it in your car in the days and months ahead (see the final step if you want to spoil it.) For your sake and your sanity, don’t have a favorite song. Our song was “God Only Knows” by The Beach Boys. Fucker.
Step 2: Make Lots of Money to Complicate Things
Okay. So you have a new man or lady in your life. Things are going great. Every kiss was new. Every fuck was a new feeling and sensation you knew couldn’t get any better. You were right.
The honeymoon period has a way of putting a haze over your eyes to the realities of the situation at hand. Everything was going smoothly in our new marriage. At the time, Cliff was a hedge fund manager at a big fancy company in Washington, D.C. I was just a barista who handed him his venti latte every morning at 7:30am sharp. Every morning. Remember that.
Once we got married, I had the option to “take a break” and finish school. His salary allowed us to find a new place in the city. It was my dream home. I was literally living the dream. For a failed grad student working at a Starbucks, I felt like I was married to Prince Charming. He swept me off my feet in that first year. I had time to pursue cooking, go to school, and be there when Cliff got home from work. Part of me felt like a 1950s housewife, which I secretly resented.
Step 3: Have a Baby
If you really want to screw things up, why not add a baby to the mix?
As a result of the fairytale, I got lazy about birth control and got pregnant when I didn’t want to. I was too busy being a homemaker and student, I guess. We were married and very happy on the surface, so we decided to stick with it. We converted my “study” to a nursery. Thankfully, the home we bought was big enough to incorporate our baby with room to spare.
To make a long step short, we had the baby. We will call her Jane for the sake of her privacy. It was only after the baby that everything really happened. Everything fell to shit. That’s when the drinking started. That was the beginning of the end. The fairy tale was over before it even began.
“How does it feel?” His head is perspiring into think rivers against his bulging neck. She voices concern without answering the question.
“I just don’t know,” she says. The hope and anger drain from his eyes. Something has knocked him off his high vantage point. he is defeated and broken all at once. The magician is out of tricks.
“You are a goddamn liar! I can’t believe we are arguing over this!” He can’t help but scream in her face.
I once had a friend who loved Sugar Ray. I’m not talking about a long time ago, It’s the year 2014 and I stopped talking to him about two years ago. His name wasn’t Ray. It was Craig. But all of us called him Sugary Ray. Don’t ask m why we added the suffix. I wouldn’t say he was full-blown obsessed with the band. But he did have every one of their albums, pus an autographed picture personalized by Mark McGrath. Douche chills. The douche chills were further compounded by his decade long ritual of recreating the lead singer’s frosted tips hairstyle. That might have been enough to sever ties by any normal standard. But I’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt. That was until the night of 15 December 2012. That was the final straw.
We both worked at a small engineering firm at the time. We had our big christmas party. We were hot on the heels of finishing a big design for a major government contractor, so we all wanted to cut loose. Craig and I drank from the start to the end of the party, never stopping. On the way back to my place, he asked the cab driver if he could make a quick stop at the convenience store. He walked in, paid, and walked out quietly and calmly, two bags in hand. Minutes later, I paid my share of the cab fare and headed upstairs to my apartment. He then got back in the can and went straight back to the firm where we worked and burned it down with two bags worth of lighter fluid and matches. In the end, Sugar Ray had nothing to do with it.
I’m braking every promise I made to myself when things started getting bad a few years back. People think they are so goddamn open-minded when it comes to life and love. I never thought it would get this bad. I can close my eyes and feel the small steel blade cutting like butter against the arterial highways of my body. But I know that’s all a fantasy. I’m hoping to keep that a fantasy. Who likes blood, anyway? I faint at the sight of blood. What would I do if I saw all of that coming out of me? Would I pass out from shock? From disgust of the blood, or disgust in myself? It’s hard to tell which one. That’s one guessing game I don’t want to participate in.
John dipped his head deep into the cold water. It felt good on his head, which felt like it was burning. He shook his head of the thoughts that ran through his mind like a freight train. He opened up the bathroom door in just enough time to sing happy birthday to his son.
There is this old Chinese guy sitting in front of me. i don’t know him, but I think he may be the most interesting person in the world. Well, at least for today.
He has a long and bushy mustache that most Chinese guys can only dream of. He is like Lo Pan meets Burt Reynolds. Rugged. Learned. Handsome. He is sipping on a hot cup of coffee and tackling a slice of pumpkin cheesecake. Why is he so interesting? He is taking bites from the tasty dessert with military precision. One bite – 1/8 of a piece. Then again, then again. all the while, his eyes never drift from the paper he is reading. I know Asian people were majestic. But shit, are they even majestic when it comes to eating cheesecake?
The effort and concentration astounds me. Not a single crumb. Is this some sort of wizard cake? In the background, two men who likely turn on Fox News first after they come home from work are talking about Obama’s plan to “oversex” and “overpay” the military. I had to find out about that cake. Was he a wizard, or was it the cake. I went up to the counter and ordered a slice. I paid the try-to-be-hard Mumford reject and sat down. Me and the wizard locked eyes. Could he sense my fear? My hands gripped my plastic weapon, and I dug in.
The cake is a lie. Crumbs everywhere. The old Chinese man folded his paper like origami, smiled, and walked away. That’s how I met the cake wizard.
Delusional Thoughts From Fantasy Island 