They'd been talking for a while now, passing messages back and forth on the antiquated messenger system on the website. Eventually she'd managed to create a message devious enough that it would allow them contact outside without being deleted by the Big Brother that oversaw all mail on the site.
He was very enthusiastic, single, handsome, clearly capable of all sorts of things, building his own home, fixing all sorts of machinery. She was surprised in fact that he was still single, he was only 32, and she had thought that every woman of his acquaintance would have been hurling herself in the path of such a good catch. It was a long term relationship gone bad, he explained, it hadn't been meant to be, but he stayed and worked at it, and he missed her, but understood why it could never work out. That satisfied her curiosity, certainly. After all, he couldn't be blamed if there was an incompatibility, could he? So she carried on talking to him, taking it step by cautious step until he disappeared one night.
And disappear was the word. His profile was still there, yet his mail went unread, the last visit date getting longer and longer. Her e-mails were not responded to, his messenger icon remained dormant. She couldn't understand it, she was genuinely hurt that this supposedly lovely man had done this, she couldn't think what could possibly have happened to him or what she could have said that would leave her beached like a dolphin, miles from the receding tide of his attention, gasping for air yet being crushed by the weight of the disappointment.
Three weeks later, to the day, she lost her nerve. A bottle of wine, an empty house and far too long spent brooding over his profile, over that particular photograph that made her go weak at the groin, took their toll. A kick from someone else that she had approached didn't help, either. It's not nice feeling too old or too young, or not blonde enough, not buxom enough, not fat or thin enough, not tall or short enough; it's hateful being rejected for that which is your lot in life and not something you can change. And so she sent him a message, a very short message.
"I don't know what I did wrong, but you hurt me and I didn't know that I felt anything for you. If you don't respond to this mail I'll never trouble you again."
She pressed Send and immediately regretted it. She was so weak sometimes, and it looked so bloody desperate, as though she had nothing and no one else in her life. She stroked the cat on her lap, drank her wine, listened to the wind echoing round the house and realised the irony of her own thoughts. As if to add to the misery the empty calendar on her desk seemed to wink at her and she slammed it shut. She knew what was in there for the foreseeable future, and it wasn't a lot.
* * * * *
The morning brought the hangover, the regret, the sheer embarrassment of having sent that damned mail. What did she think she was doing? Was she really so dependent on the attention of other people? There was a reason her diary was empty. In fact it wasn't empty at all, it was full of hard work, the work she had been dodging slightly by talking to him in the first place. It was better now, he was out of the way and out of her system, and she could get on with the writing, get her nose back onto the computer and her fingers back on the keyboards and start getting the book in shape for the now looming deadline. Taking a couple of paracetamol and brewing herself a cup of coffee she pushed open the French windows and breathed in the beautiful country air for a while before she turned to her office.
There was e-mail for her. She saw it flash as soon as she switched on the computer, an important message waiting for her. She opened it, not bothering to see who it was from and assuming it was a nag from her agent.
"I'm sorry, I've been away with work. I should have told you, but I thought I'd be able to get on line when I was there, turned out I couldn't. I didn't mean to hurt you. How can I make it up to you?"
She sat in shock, it wasn't what she had expected. At first she was angry, furious at herself for opening the door. Then she was angry with him, for assuming that she would believe such a lame excuse. Then she was numb and confused, not knowing what to think. A tentative reply was extended.
"Where were you working?" He came back immediately, no time to work up stories, he was right there telling her what happened.
"I told you I work in computers, and the company I work for sometimes freelance to other companies. In this case the Navy, they're trialling a piece of kit for us, and someone had to go with it to train the people to use it. I've been on a boat for three weeks and missing you like mad." How convenient, she thought, you just happened to come back today.
"I'm not sure what to do about your message, I wasn't expecting you to be hurt. I didn't think I meant anything to you other than a friend, we've only known each other a short while, and we haven't even met yet."
Great, now he was going to beat her over the head with common sense to compound the misery she was feeling. He was right, of course, they hadn't met. What had she assumed in his absence? Had she taken everything he'd said out of context? She was starting to feel like a fool and found herself apologising for her own confusion.
"I'm sorry, I suppose I didn't realise I had the feelings myself until you disappeared."
"Don't worry", he replied. "No harm done, nothing to apologise for. Are you ok? What are you up to?" And from there her descent began, the slide down that slippery slope of familiarity into forgetting his abandonment, into dismissing his absence in favour of the enjoyment of talking to him, of being the subject of his interest and attention. She liked being under that lamp, its glow warmed bits of her that had been dormant for the past couple of years while she had worked. It was what she had been seeking when she posted her profile on the website; and so it made it easier to relax into the state of forgetting and forgiving and getting on with feeling valued.
Needless to say this whole incident highlighted for both of them that they needed to meet, and the sooner the better. Sure enough, it was soon arranged. A friend of hers, Sophie, was having a birthday party in a town near where he lived, and she was due to go up early to help with the organisation. So she booked a room in a cozy local inn, good food, chilled wines, a nice atmosphere, oak beams and a comfy bed, and she invited him over to dinner her first night there.
The sexual tension between them was unbelievable, and their compatibility so very obvious. They finished each others sentences, they spoke the same words at the same time, and they couldn't keep their hands off each other. If people in the restaurant were embarrassed the couple didn't notice, because their eyes were fixed the one on the other. Neither had much of an appetite, and after a quick salad and a glass of wine they went by mutual consent to her room, where he took her into his arms and made perfect love to her. She felt beautiful under his gaze and his touch, and it made her want to cry with happiness.
They came back to sip from each others bodies during the night, neither fully sleeping, but napping a little before rolling toward each other and starting all over again. The simplicity of a closed mouth kiss or the touch of fingers on skin ignited their passions repeatedly, and as dawn crept over the horizon on their last night together before she went home she said those dreaded words.
"I love you." She didn't mean to hear them back, she didn't need to, they both knew the score, that monogamy wasn't for them, that they needed greater freedom to form a family of like minds and bodies, but she now hoped they could do this together and he had agreed when they spoke, this was a mutually achievable aim. Their discussions had involved a lot of very precise terms to preclude the possibility of misunderstanding and feelings being hurt. After all, when two people have contrary aims there is no basis for a relationship and to pursue one in the face of opposing destinations would lead to pain and hurt all round. Yet he nuzzled against her, his face lost in her neck as he whispered back.
"I love you, too."
The journey home was a heaving morass of emotions for her, the swelling of her love and joy, her heightened perception born of the sex they had shared, the hope for the future that he had given her when he said those words, when he had gone on to tell her that he knew already that he wanted to share his home with her. All too quick, obviously, and she knew that she would have to focus on caution, because she couldn't just throw away her home as it was on knowing someone on line for a few months then spending a few nights and days with them, mostly in bed. And so she advised herself to be cautious, even as her heart flew way above her head, tickling the tops of the trees that she drove past on her way back to her normal life.
* * * * *
Once she was home she worked with a greater fervour, wanting the book to be out of the way now, wanting to get her diary back so that she could arrange more meetings with this wonderful man. So they could spend time together, get to know each other more, to continue to consummate their relationship. Yet his work meant he was travelling all over, and hers meant she was anchored to her office chair. Yet they spoke often, by phone or IM, and still there was that buzz, that frisson of sexual excitement that spurred her into loving him more and more, craving him like a drug she couldn't live without. A little part of her knew she was being foolish, but the rest of her told it to shut up, to learn to enjoy the heady mix of hormones and emotions that buoyed her spirits and kept the smile on her face.
