Finalist: Xander Bennett
http://xanderbennett.blogspot.com
She said, “I don’t know you but I think I love you. Do you love me?”
As they lay together under satin sheets, surrounded by old and worn-out things, she waited for his answer. It never came. He must have been sleeping, she thought to herself, and hadn’t heard the question.
But he wasn’t asleep, and he had.
---
It was, by far, the largest gathering of antiquers and arcanaphiles in North America. Each of them was a seeker after truth – the truth of older, better days. Whether collectors, traders, browsers, archivers or resellers, they were all looking for a little piece of the past. They came for the books, furniture, tools, cards, lamps, signs, toys, and more; but they stayed for the people.
They met at late Victorian cutlery. She was browsing the table, examining a gilt-edged spoon, and he’d said, “That one’s marked. You’d prefer this one.”
As he took the spoon from her, their hands brushed lightly together.
---
Three weeks later, she got the news.
Of course, he had to be the father. But what did she really know about him? A name, an address, and that was all. Just some man she’d met at an antique convention, and they’d slept under satin sheets, and she’d asked him a foolish question.
She had to know more. She had to test the waters – find out what kind of person he was.
She selected a vintage postcard from her own collection. It was certainly appropriate – he’d be sure to laugh at the lightness of it all. Taking her pen (a 1930s Carmichael nib, a real collector’s item) she wrote two words, and signed it.
In hindsight, perhaps she should have written more. But the message had already been written, and the card had already been posted.
She waited.
---
It was Friday. He was opening the mail in his study, and there it was. The postcard.
He weighed it in his hand, lingering over the image of the cats, chuckling a little at the joke. Then he turned the card over and read the back.
No. This wouldn’t do, he thought. This wouldn’t work at all.
What did she want from him? It wasn’t his fault. They’d been there for the same reasons, and as far as he was concerned, his obligation had been fulfilled. The very idea of starting over, raising a family… it sickened him. To be perfectly honest, it scared him.
He hated the newness of it. He just wanted to be alone with time, with his belongings, with himself.
He walked to the shelf, placed the postcard under a stack of old and dusty books, and left it there.
Very soon, he forgot all about it.
She said, “I don’t know you but I think I love you. Do you love me?”
As they lay together under satin sheets, surrounded by old and worn-out things, she waited for his answer. It never came. He must have been sleeping, she thought to herself, and hadn’t heard the question.
But he wasn’t asleep, and he had.
---
It was, by far, the largest gathering of antiquers and arcanaphiles in North America. Each of them was a seeker after truth – the truth of older, better days. Whether collectors, traders, browsers, archivers or resellers, they were all looking for a little piece of the past. They came for the books, furniture, tools, cards, lamps, signs, toys, and more; but they stayed for the people.
They met at late Victorian cutlery. She was browsing the table, examining a gilt-edged spoon, and he’d said, “That one’s marked. You’d prefer this one.”
As he took the spoon from her, their hands brushed lightly together.
---
Three weeks later, she got the news.
Of course, he had to be the father. But what did she really know about him? A name, an address, and that was all. Just some man she’d met at an antique convention, and they’d slept under satin sheets, and she’d asked him a foolish question.
She had to know more. She had to test the waters – find out what kind of person he was.
She selected a vintage postcard from her own collection. It was certainly appropriate – he’d be sure to laugh at the lightness of it all. Taking her pen (a 1930s Carmichael nib, a real collector’s item) she wrote two words, and signed it.
In hindsight, perhaps she should have written more. But the message had already been written, and the card had already been posted.
She waited.
---
It was Friday. He was opening the mail in his study, and there it was. The postcard.
He weighed it in his hand, lingering over the image of the cats, chuckling a little at the joke. Then he turned the card over and read the back.
No. This wouldn’t do, he thought. This wouldn’t work at all.
What did she want from him? It wasn’t his fault. They’d been there for the same reasons, and as far as he was concerned, his obligation had been fulfilled. The very idea of starting over, raising a family… it sickened him. To be perfectly honest, it scared him.
He hated the newness of it. He just wanted to be alone with time, with his belongings, with himself.
He walked to the shelf, placed the postcard under a stack of old and dusty books, and left it there.
Very soon, he forgot all about it.