blase

The weather didn't help. She blanks into the screen a while longer and wonders what next to do. The prompt flickers. On. Off. On. Off. The backlight pains her eyes and the almost imperceptible hum of the drive creates a pulsating throb in her forehead. What to do next? There was bound to be something better. Better than just sitting, staring, remembering.

"yes?", a window pops up unexpectedly.

what the hell?
She thinks and replies unsurely, "?"

"you were about to type something in?"

damn pidgin messenger plug-ins.
"oh. nothing. 'that's one ugly head shot' wasn't worth the trouble of saying", almost convincing herself with the sentence. Almost with herself. But hopefully completely with him.

"haha. *winks* come on, Stace, i know you better than that."

"pig" Stacy types in, trying to remember what had driven her to think she could talk to him again in the first place.

"how have you been?"

much better. happy. happier. happiest. without you, thank God. in love. he's perfect if you ever ask by the way. nothing like you. okay, maybe a little bit similar. a pain in the ass. funny. impossible. different. he treats me better. like somehow i matter. i'm absolutely happy. most of the time, anyway.
"okay. you?"

":)", Kevin keys in.

"what's that supposed to mean?"

"it means i miss you."

"oh . . . right. . .?" i miss you? i miss you. i miss you! say it again. that just doesn't sound right. i miss you. he misses me, he says, like that's enough. is that enough?

"it's been too long"

":)"

"haha. touche"

":)"

"How's Rod?"

way to go Kevin. you pig. you arrogant motherless swine. "what?"

"nothing. forget it."

"i got to go Kev. life and reality beckon."

"okay. . . Stace. . ."

She drags the cursor across the screen to the next window. Stealth settings. Appear permanently offline to Kevin. Her fingers hover for a second. They feel heavy. Not just her fingers but her entire body. As if she had just woken up from a fitful sleep and the covers had become drenched with sweat.

Delete. "Are you sure you want to delete the selected contact from your list?" the window begs. Yes. No. Yes. Why is there never an option that says "maybe"?

January rain begins slowly like tiny memories falling from the mind, travelling across the pane, daunting, shattering on the sill.

Her gaze strays back to the previous window. "Kevin is typing a new message", it warns.

"Are you sure you want to delete the selected contact from your list?" Yes. Click.