The old leather book was a semi-used treat Fionna had found at the flea market, a sundry bought for a pittance and offered up as a random gift for the machinist in the days that had followed the Sunderton incident. It had been rebounded with empty pages, in a vellum style more suited to the gift-giver's tastes than that of the gifted, but both the sentiment behind the gift and timing of the cover's words had gone over better than likely intended.
It doesn't matter what you do with it, Stefan, the words were easy to recall, delivered in a whisper and flavored with subtle hint of French that got to him every time. Use it for a sketchbook or taking notes at work, or whatever pleases you. Write your thoughts. It might be therapeutic.
And perhaps it would be.
http://img3.etsystatic.com/000/0/5358616/il_fullxfull.280723595.jpg
It was two nights after the incident in his office with Fionna and the spirit of Erica that Steve finally recalled that gift and her words, finding himself home alone on a night when Raza was visiting his father and the girls had elected to take a much needed night out together at the theater. Hunched up on the battered old couch in his study, weathered hands turned the empty book over and over until the fastening came undone of it's own accord.
At some point, he started to write:
For the record, I'm not writing Dear Diary. Ever.
That's for teenage girls and guys who can't EVER get laid.
That said, I think Fi was right when she assumed I might want to use this thing to get some things off of my chest. I mean, she's gotta be right. Right? Here I am... writing in this thing. And rambling, apparently. I never ramble...
A small measure of chicken scratch followed, with any number of self-deprecating doodles in which Steve made sure to poke more than a little fun of himself.
It's April 21st. Only two days removed from the what happened at the office.
It's hard to admit that I should have known better than to attempt direct contact with Erica, even after Fi's more informed warnings, but can anyone really look me in the eye tell me that if they had that much history with someone they lost that they wouldn't try?
Could I look myself in the mirror if I didn't?
Deep down, I knew it was asking for trouble and that there was little chance of her just moving on after me trying to give her closure. Give us closure. The first (and really, last) clue should have been the fact that while I talked, I couldn't hear a damned thing and that the temperature in the room and dropped considerably. I prattled on, of course, in vain hope that something I said might have gotten through to her. As far as I was concerned, I had nothing but time. After all, she wasn't throwing anything around or trying to hit me with anything. That didn't keep me from stressing heavily, though.
And normally? Normally when Fionna walks into any room I'm in, everything gets better.
Not today.
I could scribble out a thousand details about what happened next; the altercation between the girlfriend and the ghost of my ex-girlfriend and the stress I had to put on my system to eventually break it up. Would that it had just ended there and I could just take Fi home and let the most recent chapter of some crappy vid-drama just close. But the tensions were too high and, much to my eventual shame, my blood was running too hot when I finally paid more than peripheral attention to Fionna...
If I was under threat of being a testosterone-laden behemoth of a, well, guy (duh)... then all that was man about my blood was afire when I noticed the little schoolgirl get-up she had on...
I couldn't think straight. Well, not in the conventional sense, and missed so many clues in the heat of the moments that followed. She talked to me in ways that she never had before. No, not my Fi. It just wasn't her style.
(As an aside, I feel the need to point out that Fionna, MY Fionna, is the most subtley sexy woman I've never been lucky enough to know. I could pontificate for hours on that subject, but well, demurely desirable doesn't even come close to covering it.)
It wasn't her. Not in spirit, anyway.
And I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN.
Me.
Steve.
I should have (and on some level I probably did) known and yet there I was, all but about to ravage her and without so much as her knowing it. I almost went too far. Shit, as far as I'm concerned, I did go to far. I could used primal instinct and any number of excuses in an attempt to let myself off the hook, but...
I just can't.
If Erica hadn't slipped up and said something so obvious, something so wrong, I can't think what I might have done as anything short of a violation of Fi's trust. Even now, after the dangerous, dangerous gamble I made to try and free her from the possession, and the tender understanding she exhibited in the aftermath of her own short raging fit...
It was followed by a comforting moment, the hint at something that I think's been worrying us since Christmas. I think she liked it. I did too...
I want to feel like I deserve her, you know.
Sometimes I think I don't.
It doesn't matter what you do with it, Stefan, the words were easy to recall, delivered in a whisper and flavored with subtle hint of French that got to him every time. Use it for a sketchbook or taking notes at work, or whatever pleases you. Write your thoughts. It might be therapeutic.
And perhaps it would be.
http://img3.etsystatic.com/000/0/5358616/il_fullxfull.280723595.jpg
It was two nights after the incident in his office with Fionna and the spirit of Erica that Steve finally recalled that gift and her words, finding himself home alone on a night when Raza was visiting his father and the girls had elected to take a much needed night out together at the theater. Hunched up on the battered old couch in his study, weathered hands turned the empty book over and over until the fastening came undone of it's own accord.
At some point, he started to write:
For the record, I'm not writing Dear Diary. Ever.
That's for teenage girls and guys who can't EVER get laid.
That said, I think Fi was right when she assumed I might want to use this thing to get some things off of my chest. I mean, she's gotta be right. Right? Here I am... writing in this thing. And rambling, apparently. I never ramble...
A small measure of chicken scratch followed, with any number of self-deprecating doodles in which Steve made sure to poke more than a little fun of himself.
It's April 21st. Only two days removed from the what happened at the office.
It's hard to admit that I should have known better than to attempt direct contact with Erica, even after Fi's more informed warnings, but can anyone really look me in the eye tell me that if they had that much history with someone they lost that they wouldn't try?
Could I look myself in the mirror if I didn't?
Deep down, I knew it was asking for trouble and that there was little chance of her just moving on after me trying to give her closure. Give us closure. The first (and really, last) clue should have been the fact that while I talked, I couldn't hear a damned thing and that the temperature in the room and dropped considerably. I prattled on, of course, in vain hope that something I said might have gotten through to her. As far as I was concerned, I had nothing but time. After all, she wasn't throwing anything around or trying to hit me with anything. That didn't keep me from stressing heavily, though.
And normally? Normally when Fionna walks into any room I'm in, everything gets better.
Not today.
I could scribble out a thousand details about what happened next; the altercation between the girlfriend and the ghost of my ex-girlfriend and the stress I had to put on my system to eventually break it up. Would that it had just ended there and I could just take Fi home and let the most recent chapter of some crappy vid-drama just close. But the tensions were too high and, much to my eventual shame, my blood was running too hot when I finally paid more than peripheral attention to Fionna...
If I was under threat of being a testosterone-laden behemoth of a, well, guy (duh)... then all that was man about my blood was afire when I noticed the little schoolgirl get-up she had on...
I couldn't think straight. Well, not in the conventional sense, and missed so many clues in the heat of the moments that followed. She talked to me in ways that she never had before. No, not my Fi. It just wasn't her style.
(As an aside, I feel the need to point out that Fionna, MY Fionna, is the most subtley sexy woman I've never been lucky enough to know. I could pontificate for hours on that subject, but well, demurely desirable doesn't even come close to covering it.)
It wasn't her. Not in spirit, anyway.
And I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN.
Me.
Steve.
I should have (and on some level I probably did) known and yet there I was, all but about to ravage her and without so much as her knowing it. I almost went too far. Shit, as far as I'm concerned, I did go to far. I could used primal instinct and any number of excuses in an attempt to let myself off the hook, but...
I just can't.
If Erica hadn't slipped up and said something so obvious, something so wrong, I can't think what I might have done as anything short of a violation of Fi's trust. Even now, after the dangerous, dangerous gamble I made to try and free her from the possession, and the tender understanding she exhibited in the aftermath of her own short raging fit...
It was followed by a comforting moment, the hint at something that I think's been worrying us since Christmas. I think she liked it. I did too...
I want to feel like I deserve her, you know.
Sometimes I think I don't.