Desperate Affections: A (Really) Short Story

I just thought this snippet up and felt compelled to get it typed out. I thought I’d share.

It’s titled Desperate Affections.

The monitor provided little light in the otherwise dark room, casting long shadows like taunting specters. At least, that’s how the man, lying prostrate on a couch across from the computer, saw them. He thought he should check again; or had he just checked? He didn’t care; he knew he wouldn’t be able to relax until he tried again.
Slowly he raised his tired body from the couch, holding onto the headphones he had on so they didn’t fall; he needed the comforting embrace of loud music right now. Plodding slowly over to his computer chair, he proceeded to open up every social networking tool he had available, ever chat program he had ever downloaded, and scanned them all for any notifications, any messages, anything at all from the one person he wanted to hear. She was special to him. Seeing nothing, he proceeded to open her profile page, to see her face at least once. That beautiful face…
Quickly he closed the browser. No. He couldn’t keep doing that. If anyone else could see him now, they’d call him a creep. A loser. A lonely, pathetic person far too attached to someone who probably barely even knew he was alive.
He turned up the volume a few notches.
Dropped back onto the couch, he let his mind wander, which was a mistake; his thoughts, when left to their own devices, always returned to her.
She had messaged him once, by accident. She quickly apologized once she did and said she meant to say hi to another person, but he managed to get her to talk for a bit afterwards, asking about her day, what she liked doing, anything he could think of. She had been nice and considerate throughout the whole conversation. That was a good sign, right? Or had she just pretended to be nice, while in actuality being annoyed at having to maintain the appearance of politeness with a decrepit being such as him?
Feeling the urge to check again, he dragged himself off the couch with a fervent haste, opening the browser and logging in, only to close it quickly once he saw nothing was there, feeling miserable and ashamed.
He could just call her, or text her. Her number was on her profile page. Or would that be creepy? He didn’t even know if she knew his name, and he thought he could just call out of the blue? He wouldn’t know what to say, and he’d stumble over ever word, and she’d hang up telling him to leave her alone, and he wouldn’t be able to handle it.
He turned up the volume a few notches more.
He didn’t know what was going to give out first, the speakers or his eardrums, and he didn’t care. She was so pretty! She was interesting; she had made good conversation. Why wouldn’t she message him? Just to say hi, nothing serious. Was that so much to ask?
It was a futile infatuation.
Why had be born with so much love to give, and no confidence to give it to anyone?
He let his body drop onto the hard floor, the headphones falling off with a clatter, his eyes watering, and a whimper escaping his lips.

Less-than-eloquently yours,
Brendon “writes depressing things” Regier


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About Brendon

I am a global terrorism warlord, meth kingpin, and hacker extraordinaire who has a moon base, at least fifteen wives, countless armies at my disposal, and a discover card. Oh, I also frequently make things up when I'm bored.

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