0058.

A Fictional Story.
By: Laura Fagan



It's not like I think about him every day, y'know. I mean, I have a life. I do yoga. My dog loves to watch The View with me every morning. Mr. Ramirez, the mailman, and I have actually formed a substantial acquaintance. And besides, it's not as if I haven't tried to forget. Maybe I should just pour myself into my work like those cocktail-drinking business women in the movies. At least then I wouldn't have time to consider the important things in life, which, for me, would be an improvement.

If it weren't for that damn MyBook.com, I would never have had to see his face again after college. How does social networking manage to sound so appealing yet make my life miserable? I mean, having all the details about a person they choose to share with the internet world (which admittedly is often far too much) at your fingertips? It's fascinating! It fulfills my inner child's lifelong dream of becoming the next Harriet the Spy. But therein lies the danger. My vice. I don't WANT to look. But there he is. Just standing there, the gleam of the camera flash reflecting off the mirror just enough to give the picture that amateur glow. As if he isn't brilliant at everything. But I digress.

I suppose it doesn't help that I still frequent the same gym in which he is currently employed. So what, I'm just supposed to abandon all regard for physical fitness because of a little undying, unrequited love for Get Fit's employee of the month? Uh, I don't think so. That would be a crime against my very flesh. And I don't condone propitiating future pain by simply refusing to embrace a few challenges...

I still have his t-shirt, you know. I mean, the fact that it is even in my possession in the first place is somewhat of a mishap. But is it my fault that people leave things lying around in the laundromat dryer while they go make change for a dollar? I've been planning the return of the shirt for the last two weeks, and I think I've come up with a brilliant solution to fill the pit of longing in my very soul. Closure, that is. Upon casually returning the shirt, ("oh, hi, i believe you dropped this the other day...") he will either confess his feelings for me in a dramatic scene of unleashed hidden passion... or walk away, t-shirt in hand. And in that serendipitous moment I will know in my heart whether or not it is meant to be.

THEN I will pour myself into my work.
The manager of the kitchen appliances department will be thrilled.