Dear Chris

He told me a story, about how he had to enter a stand-up comedy contest wearing a dress in order to get into his fraternity, that had me laughing so hard I was in tears.

I decided, much like I often had, that I should get while the getting was good. I stood up and let myself out of the small box without even a good-bye.

"DJ?" I heard Chris call after me. "Will I see you again?"

I closed my eyes. Oh, I don't know if I had it within me to stay away. But I said what came to my mind, in an old timey voice. "One never knows, do one."

--

DJ

In all this time I was writing to Chris, and doing my day job, I wasn't writing any new fiction. After the church I went home, with the muse on fire. I sat down at the computer until four in the morning, the characters in my head dancing across the page, lighting up the night. Their prose was perfect, their dialog witty. I sat on the edge of my seat as I followed them through dark alleys and into lush metaphors.

Chris had opened some pipe way that had been squeezed; I felt like I was breathing clean air filled with inspiration.

It was the beginning of a pattern for us. Every Wednesday I went to the confession booth and spun a story more horrific and fantastical than the next. Every Wednesday evening I went home and wrote the story down, my fingers flying across the keys with blurring speed. I sent the stories out, and people bought them. Early spring became abundant blooms, then the grasses dried brown as spring turned summer, and fan groups of my little off-world crossed lover assassins sprung up on the internet, causing me to strut around my backyard like a peacock when nobody was looking.

And then one day I had a thought.

*From DJtruewriter*

Dear Chris,

I have a surprise for Wednesday.

Something wicked this way comes.

-DJ

*From Chris1970*

If the surprise is holding me captive by reading me Shakespeare, I have to tell you, I much prefer your original tales to his. But then, I prefer your stories over all others.

-- C.

Wednesday came. As always he arrived in the both before me.

"Chris," I whispered. "Close your eyes and promise me you'll keep them closed."

"Okay."

Vroom, vroom.

I revved the cordless power drill.

I pictured his eyes snapping open. But as he promised they wouldn't maybe they didn't. Or if they did, maybe he closed them right away.

"What's that?" he whispered.

I didn't answer.

I just started working on the screws; unscrewing the four screws that held up the latticed panel between us. When I got them all loose, I took the panel and placed it behind me.

I got my first look at Chris. I guess he was in his late 30s, early 40s maybe. He was wearing a loose, worn, light tan jacket, probably to ward off the chill of the air conditioner in the church. In the dark confines, with the loose jacket, and the way he was sitting, I couldn't see all the muscle groups to tell the exact shape of him, but he was a big guy, gone a little to bulk. Salt and pepper hair, heavy on the salt. Square jaw, kind face. Full lips. I wondered what color his eyes were.

"Once upon a time," I said. I got comfortable and let my voice take on lush, sing-song tones. "There was a very elegant woman. She was tall and willowy. She had more money than she could spend in ten lifetimes. She was aloof and often alone. She was rarely lonely, but sometimes she was.

"She was driving to a charity ball. The crème de la crème of society. She had made a big donation; people were expecting her to show up. It was a long way from where she lived. She wanted the scenic route, so she took the winding, twisty roads, with their huge shroud-like trees that hung over the pavement like a canopy. Sun set and a light mist started.

"A deer jumped in front of her car and she narrowly missed it, but a second deer followed the first and as she swerved to avoid it she hit a deep gully on the side of the road.

"She got out to inspect the damage, climbing into the small gulf to see it was minimal. But the tire was stuck in the mud and there was no way she was getting out. The mist increased slightly, damping her simple white sheath, with its now mud-stained hem.

"She got behind the wheel of her car anyway, thinking one try wouldn't hurt, even if the tires just spun. But there was nothing but a coughing-hick when she tried to turn the car back on, as if the engine too decided it had had enough.

"She opened the hood, propped it up. Looked down at the hot engine steaming in the mist like she knew all the answers when she knew none.

"She got her phone out of her small silver clutch purse but of course there was no signal. She was far away from everything. Her only hope was that a car would come by. Surely one would.

"The wait seemed long with nothing but her thoughts to occupy her. She had gotten so used to everything being instantly served, less than a second wait for internet, servants, waiters.

"But it was probably only 15 minutes before a car came by. Just as it slowed, the mist turned to a warm drizzling rain.

"The car stopped for her immediately. It was a silver Benz, the exact same model as hers, and somehow that gave her peace.

"The man got out. She had the strange feeling she'd seen him before, in some other city maybe. He glanced over at the car. 'Let me get down in there and get a good look, maybe I can push it out.' He gestured to his own car. 'You can sit in my car if you'd like, get out of the wet.'

"She knew it was a foolish thing to do, get in the car of a stranger, even a stopped car, even for a second. But she'd been standing for 15 minutes in high heels not meant for harsh paved roads, and the rain would turn her dress see-through in a few minutes if she didn't do something.

"The car was warm, and cozy, and smelled nice, like donuts, as if he had stopped somewhere recently and bought sweets that were actually fresh baked.

"She closed her eyes. Perhaps his cell phone would work. Maybe he had a different carrier.

"The driver's side door opened and closed, and then she was looking at him, so much larger than she realized, crowding up the space.

" 'Can't get it out.' He looked at her then, and there was a hunger in his eyes. She wondered if her dress had gone partially transparent after all."

Chris' breathing changed a little at that, and I leaned in slightly closer to him. I let my voice get even quieter, huskier.

" 'I'm guessing your heading somewhere specific, with how beautiful you look,' the man said. 'I could take you there; I'd hate to keep you.' But somehow his tone said the opposite.

"For a second she stopped breathing, the in and out literally suspended, as her whole body gasped in and then held. Something in his voice, a need she hadn't heard in a long time made her want to answer. She had to try twice, and lick her dry lips and let her mouth hang open, relearning how to breathe for a second before she managed to say, 'I could be fashionably late.'

"He drove a bit, and her hand crept toward him. She noticed jumper cables between them, their edges looking sharp, the cord looking strong. He glanced over and caught where he was looking. He pulled off between some trees and his expression was wicked and dangerous."

I leaned forward so my lips where just a hair's breath from Chris' cheek. Then I was speaking in a raspy whisper, right into Chris' ear.

"And she didn't know whether to be excited or scared as her heart beat faster, but she realized that perhaps she'd be much, much later than just fashionably later, after all."

I backed up abruptly and screwed the panel on as quickly as I could.

"DJ? DJ!"

I had the dividing panel on in record time and was out of the booth.

"DJ!" I heard him yell. "What happened? What happened to her? What happened to the lady in white?"

The click on my heels sounded loud as I started to walk away and then stopped. "You know what happened."

"Did he kill her? Did they make love? Did he use the cables on her?"

"Whatever you think happened, happened Chris."

I walked away, the echoing of my heels sounding even louder.

"DJ! I want to see you again. I want a part two to the story!"

"There's no part two," I called out as I was almost to the door. "The moral of the story is you make your own endings. In the end you are always the one who creates your own thoughts to please yourself."

"DJ!" He yelled.

But I was out the door. I ran down the sidewalk wondering if I had intended to have a steamy car scene, and if I had, if that would have been crossing a line, building a relationship, almost cheating on my boyfriend by taking the friendship too far.

Or maybe I already had.

But I knew I'd come back.

Even if I never told another story.

Because I was hooked.

# # #

This chapter is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Copyright belongs to MJ Roberts 2014. Please do not reproduce without permission from the author.

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