Abigail

A few glasses of wine with the girls from work turns out to be a fine way to pass the time until midnight calls. I actually enjoyed myself. And now, I’m back in my apartment and logged in when the light turns green on his profile.

I doubt he can be left with any uncertainty by now as to how sure I am that I want this. The thought makes my skin prickle.

I’m already so used to this strange sense of closeness. I know nothing, and yet I feel so much. I don’t even know his name, and likely never will, but that doesn’t matter. It’s only taken one short week for this time of night to feel like my everything.

My stomach flutters as the first ping comes through. I wonder if I should tell him I’m drunk.

I wonder if I should tell him that my life has become liveable again since he came along.

Even in my inebriated condition I know that would be a stupid thing to confess.

His message gives me shivers,

There’s only one nightclub in Malvern.

It’s on an industrial estate down by the Link train station.

Next Saturday evening you will park at the station.

You will cross the road and take the path along Spring Lane, and then walk through the estate until you get to Fireflies.

You will be on soft drinks only, but you will have a good time.

You will dance, even though your nerves will be spiking like crazy.

You will stay as long as you like.

And then you will leave.

You will walk back slowly the way you came.

And you will be careful, keeping an eye over your shoulder the whole time.

If you feel scared, you will run.

His messages pause and I can’t hold back. My fingers are a flurry on my keyboard.

And you’ll be there? You’ll be there to chase me?Next weekend for real?

My heart is racing as he types a response.

You will meet your monster, just be sure you really want to be acquainted.

I do. Oh fuck, I do. My whole body is thrumming.

His messages keep coming before I can reply.

You can turn back whenever you wish.

You can decide against coming at all.

You can call a taxi from the club to your car and never step foot in the shadows.

Changing your mind would be easy, but still, if you want a safe word you can have one.

My response is instant.

I don’t want one and I won’t be changing my mind.

I’ll be there.

His reply comes right back.

So will I.

I can’t believe this is really happening. A strange bubble of emotions brings a lump to my throat. But it’s not sadness.

It’s relief.

Excitement.

Or it is until he messages again.

This will be the last time we speak, but before we say goodbye, I want you to know that I’ve really enjoyed our conversations.

I hope this turns out to be everything you were hoping for, and that it brings you to life again.

My stomach falls through the floor. I’m not ready for goodbye. Goodbye hasn’t even been on my radar. Not even close.

I know this is a one off. I know it was always meant to be.

I know that saying goodbye is inevitable. I just… I don’t want… not now.

I’m struggling for words when another ping comes through.

For what it’s worth, I think the guy who left you alone in your darkest hour is the weakest kind of asshole. Please don’t let him steal more of your soul than he already has. Believe me when I say he’s not worth it.

The lump in my throat spills into a stupid tear. But strangely it’s not Stephen I’m crying for.

I force myself to type.

Wow. Goodbyes always feel so shitty, hey?

I swat my tears away as he pings again.

So I’ve found.

I’m dreading the circle turning grey, but the typing icon stays solid.

And then more.

I’m sorry for everything you’ve been through. Truly.

His words make my heart pang.

I’m sorry too.

I’m sorry for the things in my life I wanted and will most likely never have, but mostly I’m grateful for him – the stranger who’s giving me back my heart, even if it’s still bleeding.

I’m not ready for the next message.

I’m not ready for the circle next to his picture to blink out.

Goodbye, Abigail.

I’m still typing when the text box dulls to grey along with his icon. My fingers are still slamming the keys when Phoenix Burning changes to user unavailable.

And then he’s gone.

He’s really gone.

My bleeding heart bleeds some more, but this time I’m still smiling.

This time goodbye is bittersweet.

Because this time the best is still to come.

 

 

* * *

 

Phoenix

 

Severing our intimacy across the ether hits me deep. Really fucking deep.

Saying goodbye to my black swan is a tragedy, but it’s a beautiful one.

It feels harder than I thought, but it has to be this way.

When, if, we meet in the darkness, we will meet as strangers and nothing more. I will be a monster and she will be my bait.

Silence feeds the thrill and excitement. It also feeds fear.

There will be no daily contact to offer reassurances. No running commentary to put her demons at ease.

If she really does arrive in the club next weekend it’ll be because she was right all along – she really does crave this fantasy too much to leave it alone.

And if she doesn’t?

My gut turns at the thought.

And if she doesn’t the world keeps on spinning.

I don’t know why that feels like such a bullshit lie.

I stare at the logout screen for an age, fighting the urge to reactivate my profile and feign an unanswered question. Something of importance. Anything to keep the channel of communication open just a little bit longer.

My cock is aching in my jeans as I stare numbly ahead.

I have her photographs saved to my desktop. I also have her current address, and the one in Hampshire she lived in before that.

The electoral roll software at work has more benefits than scoping out bad client credit risks, it seems.

I had her history at my fingertips, right there for the taking.

Abigail Rachel Summers. Twenty-seven years old. Six years younger than me.

Born in Fleet. Excellent credit rating.

I found her on the business connect website, keeping my search anonymous. She hasn’t updated her profile with her new position, whatever that may be, but in her old life she was doing well for herself.

Head of Customer Relations at some business services company. Her profile picture was smiley and professional, her dark hair in one of those fancy buns. Her work pictures show a woman who is comfortable in her own skin. Comfortable with her place in the universe.

I feel so fucking sad for her that the universe chewed her up.

Stephen Hartley is a listed contact in her organisation overview. Sales Director. Handsome guy. Longish hair. Maybe a hint of throwback goth if you took the suit out of the equation.

Somehow I know he’s the douche in question. Call it instinct.

I feel all her broken pieces. I feel her sadness. Her hopelessness. Her despair.

I’m no fool. I know she’s mirroring my own. I know it’s my own hopelessness reflected right back at me.

It doesn’t make it any less real.

Stephen Hartley is every kind of spineless. I have the urge to hunt him down and give the prick some payback, which is all the confirmation I’ll ever need that deactivating my profile and treating this fantasy as the one-time-only affair it’s intended to be is the only rational move available.

It’s definitely rational.

Painful.

Uncomfortable.

Sad, almost.

But rational.

I allow myself one last lingering look at my black swan before I close my laptop.

And then, with my cock in my hand, I imagine the next, and only, time I’ll ever see her again.