Story Part XV: Grand Finale

I had tried three times at this point to gently reject Sebastian, and each attempt had failed. It was time to try something new.

I believe that from this point on, I will just allow you, dear reader, to form your own conclusions from our correspondence.

"Sebastian,
How do I refuse to reply to words soaked in such sincerity? Obviously, I cannot. But if we are to persist, then I must make one humble request of my own: that you begin to see me not as a profile--which seems to me to be a mere distillation of ourselves, suitable for one serving only--but as a more complete person. A human being with the flaws, embarrassments, hang-ups and obsessions I count as my own.

So, in an unprecedented move, I now begin to offer you a more complete self-portrait, so that you can begin to assess the worthiness of all of this.

I have not always been patient. I decided some time ago to begin working on this, and began a series of rituals I continue to this day: I choose the longest line in the grocery store. I look for older people, fists full of coupons, or mothers, hips laden with unruly children. I then stand behind them with my small basketfull of items. I use this time to mentally compile lists of books I would like to read, or what I might paint when I get home. Sometimes, I simply try to think of nothing. This is no small feat. I have become more patient as a result, but now, like a pigeon, I am locked into this ritual whether or not it remains functional.

I have at times been very mean. When I was in academia, I found that I could be quite cutting. This made me feel very uncomfortable, and in an attempt to justify myself, I began to perfect my insults. I realized finally that I had no need nor desire to continue in this vein. I spent six months whispering "shhh" to myself as I walked the campus and city whenever a cruel observation entered my mind. Now, I rarely say a cruel thing about or to others, but can still be heard whispering 'shh' to myself on occasion.

I am a process, and feel confident that, if I do not possess an established garden, I at least can claim a marvelous tool shed. And in my search for that hand of which you spoke so eloquently, I look for inspiration, not validation. The hand that pulls me at times, restrains me at others, and lays comfortably and still when I just need a rest from the marvelous strip club of a world in which we live.

Emily"

***

"Emily,
Thank goodness that we get down to it. You were fast becoming more fog than specter, what with your profile now turned off. And I really wasn't sure how much longer you would indulge my dance by being amused. So thank you for making this a little more tangible. These messages have become surprisingly delicate to write as you continue to respond.

I do read an awful lot into your profile, but I am excited far more by your responses. I don't imagine this is a surprise to you, which doesn't ease my intrigue. So I am coy when I should not be because it is not safe to act otherwise. Or, far more accurately, it is terrifying to capture you only by a thread. And it makes me agonize over your reception of every word I write, such as capture--and thread.

I know you are mean and how easy that is. I know how aware you are of it and how hard that is. I know you seek patience, because it is the healthiest reaction and it requires both acceptance and will. I know you are obsessive because it takes all your determination to contain those spirals of thought, that raw intelligence. And I know the quiet satisfaction of a system like I know the frustration of a maze.

And, Emily (surely it's not a cheap device to use your name), I know my role is not to tell you all this, to sum it up so glibly, but to lift you off the page with imagination and delight.

But I first have to contain my thoughts of everything we might share. What is far more tangible than however dreamy I have made you to be is how acutely aware you are of my meaning, intentional or not. That is something I can be a little more objective about, and, far more importantly, is where I have always known I would find my own inspiration, not just my solace.

If we could walk and talk down these streets far into the night, I would be at your door. I want to know all about your flaws and your beauties, but right now I will patiently smile over your shhh's and hope you will think well of me. I am not sure what else to do from here to show my hand is skilled, whatever the use.

Sebastian

Ask! I want to tell."

***

"Sebastian,
I apologize for my mild disappearing act. I've re-activated my profile for your obsessing pleasure. And now, find a seat, because the liberties I'm about to take with metaphors and imagery are surely illegal in Kansas, Utah and perhaps West Virginia.

Our correspondence and a recent conversation with a friend have my mind working overtime on the nature of relationships and complexity and time and chance. My friend, who has known me almost three years told me that he was always intrigued by me because I presented so many different personas to him. First, he met the Midwestern girl, who laughed at most everything he said. Then, he met the scholar, who spoke with such passion on things considered morbidly boring to most. Then he met the musician, who had such passion for the music of those whose blood she's gladly drink if only to understand a bit of their genius. He kept wondering when he would finally meet the real Emily. And, in an epiphany borne of a drunken stupor, he finally realized that he had met me. I have many dimensions, and I'm always curious how path-dependent relationships can be, the end is almost always a consequence of the beginning, which level we first offer and which we first accept.

I'm trying to say this: You've been extraordinarily lucky to have happened onto this dimension first. Under a mere fistful of sand, you found that spring for which others dug in vain--some for years. They began digging elsewhere, and finding nothing with which to quench their thirst, wandered off to other deserts. But it's been here--I've been here the whole time. I just try so ardently to preserve my carefully constructed world--if I feel judged, or pressed too quickly, or overwhelmed by the infinite possibilities, I quickly retreat and close off from view all of those traits--all of this vulnerability--which you have so easily elicited from me. You are the only person in the world who knows what 'shhh' means when uttered by my lips.

So, I'm asking--what are your most precious, secret systems and mazes? Do you think you've ever started digging in the wrong place and wandered off too quickly? And now that you're here, do you tremble with anticipation every time you bend to take a drink?

I do.

Emily"

***

I know I promised to let our correspondence speak for itself, but I must add a brief note here. I realized after writing this that I had invited him to open up to me, to become vulnerable, and that this would only cause more pain when the conclusion--whatever it was to be--would occur. So, before I received a response, I deleted my profile...I realized this would also hurt him, so through a few bureaucratic turns, re-activated my profile. I then wrote the following email.

***

"Sebastian,
I apologize for disappearing again. I read over my emails and yours, and it just seemed too intense. Maybe I feel comfortable sharing myself with you because not only are we similar, but we are anonymous. And, your writing is beautiful, and perhaps I became carried away with potential, myself. But you don't know me, and I don't know you. For all I know, you're a lesbian who has become frustrated with the lack of interesting lesbian women to date in the Ohio area.

So. Perhaps we could go back to mild amusement?

Emily"

***

" Emily:

Well, you certainly substantiate your claims of unavailability. However effective, it was not altogether necessary to contrast it in succession with a rare admittance of vulnerability. But this is probably the appropriate check and balance to my too my selfishness in grabbing your hand and pulling you into this world of words without considering the pace of your gait. Discretion is always a better strategy than boldness. You are, again, my counterpoint, and, again, that only makes you more attractive. And again, I am twisting to my courting advantage your sincere protestations. I am sorry for that, but should I try to curb them, perhaps you will allow one with a smile now and again.

I have often thought that you might be the workings of a devious and mechanical imagination, capable of catering to my perhaps too transparent blueprint of attraction. And knowing full well such a thing could barely exist, let alone succeed, you are a figment created to show how susceptible I am to the trappings of my own imagination.

Nonetheless, I believe that you exist, as I have faith in my own ability to determine my path to love. And, as amusing to me as is the idea that I am a lesbian's ruse, I assure you I am another fumbling male.

But the only way you might gain confidence in this fact would be some sort of more substantial contact. So I propose that you call me sometime, just so that we do not remain anonymous. I know you will protest, but at least keep the number: 775 555 5792. In this context, I am wildly amusing.

And although six months may seem a long time to span with these messages, I know that in the mundane world, it is going to pass in the swiftest of frames. Which is why I am already starting to pack, and it is why I don't think it is foolish to begin thinking of meeting you.

Sebastian."

***

" E-

I realized there was no reply marked for this message from you in my box. I imagine you did receive my original response, but it was not included in your subsequent message, so I am resending, if only to have it on record. S

Emily,

I do know I was fortunate enough to catch your eye from a distance, and you so quickly steadied our approach with what I will simply call grace. But, just grappling with your fundamentals, never mind your particulars, I could only be ignorant of how elusive your gaze might be to maintain, as you explain. Understanding this after the fact makes me reel with caution but recover with my own acceptance and joy.

I put tremendous trust in my perception, probably foolishly so. But I have also been far too eager to
maintain hope in someone perhaps with only fleeting potential. It is nearly always my perception, not my dogged optimism, that informs me in the long run most. So I have learned not to linger where I cannot find what stimulates me readily. Where I cannot find kindness in actions and thought that is daring. If it were hidden from me, I think at least I would know. And I have no history to allow a prediction of how such a challenge might end.

I want to say that people know me as they know you--dependent on circumstance. I blend too easily with my surroundings. It is one of my systems: let everyone have their way, surrender your will, thereby not valuing one choice over another. And it happens to me in relationships just as you describe. And I quickly learn to resent this false routine.

And this is why I am attracted to you. I decided to find someone like me, someone's will to which I could surrender, because it was my own. And in these circumstances, I can only be brave, accept I have no camouflage, and act for myself, whatever the risk. But, my support, so wisely chosen, would often enough voice agreement, or offer valuable perspective if in dissent. And I am able to reciprocate. It is my grand plan, and it makes me a little bit of a madman, but it goes a long way toward explaining why I like you.

And to substantiate such claims of madman-dom, I will offer one of my ways through this world: When I was young, my father, working for courage by operating on fear, told me of Jesus being tempted by the devil. Jesus said, "Devil be behind me," and his choice was enough to keep the devil back. A simple story, certainly misremembered, and one that might encourage independence. But for me, I imagined that every scenario became a bargain with the devil. The devil was always ready to offer me my desired result in any situation. To ensure that the outcome would rely on my own actions or the inevitable fits of chance, and not a deal for my soul, I would silently repeat, "Devil be behind me." I still do it today, but not like I did when I was young. It is under my breath, it is not a story I tell, it is not a chain of events I dare spend too much time piecing together in my mind. I can somehow say from a distance what was before impossible to whisper in an ear.

And I'll now borrow your imagery to multiply this voice: I do tremble, in the quietest moments when I can glimpse the vastness of this desert while never losing sight of the glisten in your eye.

Sebastian."

***

It was too much. I realized, after much reluctance, that he had begun to fall for me--or rather, fall for Emily. If we had woven webs before with our words, I had now created a tapestry, and every thread threatened to break his heart. With head and pulse throbbing, I went to my keyboard and typed this, my final letter:

"Sebastian,
Perhaps it is because I am drunk I have decided to tell you this.

I had not received your response to my ‘desert’ email. I found your confession tremendously moving, and terribly sad for some reason. So, in an attempt at parity, I now confess not a maze or system, but a sin I have committed. If you choose to offer me grace, then I promise to become more substantial to you. Though I’ve long felt I deserve no redemption here.

I was dating a man with whom there was tremendous potential, and at the time (as will come as no surprise to you), I felt tremendous excitement and fear. I knew I was nowhere near complete as an individual, and so when the opportunity for a relationship presented itself, I balked. Not consciously, but subconsciously. I was so petrified that I might not have the chance to become comfortable with myself, to learn about myself, to become me. I had been feeling more like a leaf in the wind than a tree, carried in whichever direction there was the slightest nudge.

I have also always been tremendously fascinated with the possibility that individuals are so driven towards false goals they assume whatever character necessary, numb whatever emotions could prove a hindrance, and proceed at all costs to obtain those goals. In short, they prostitute themselves for meaningless, but perceived treasures.

So, for our first date, we decided to immerse ourselves in a fantasy. We took a three-day vacation together. He was a gainfully employed man, and I was a poor student at the time. So, of course, he paid for everything. It killed my pride, my spirit, each time he reached into his wallet to pay for me. I suppose I could have used your chant, “Devil, be behind me.” But I had no such chant, and I responded instead by using this time to investigate how it would feel to actually be a prostitute, rather than offer him any reason to pursue a relationship with me. As a punishment to myself, I made sure to gaze into his eyes as we were physical with one another so that I would be acutely aware of the complete lack of intimacy. And I made sure to thank him for each injustice.

For years now I have searched for a suitable definition of grace. I finally determined my own: to perform an act of kindness for the undeserving--that is grace.
****

Yes, it is me. And while I know you will instantly presume I did all of this to hurt you or get even, I promise I did not. In fact, I was shocked when you found this profile. I enjoy writing fake profiles not to mislead others, nor is it for other nefarious purposes, such as stalking, baiting, or what-have-you. The fake profiles I write are mostly me, but I change the occupation listed to one of my several dream jobs (photographer, artist, baker, writer, etc). I change my location to a city in which I would like to live (NYC, Chicago, SF). Then, I use photo-shopped pictures of myself. Once I have created my fantasy life, oddly, I am more at ease discussing myself. When I had a "real" profile on-line, I was pithy, sarcastic, witty, and closed. I believe this is quite rational given the audience. However, when I am writing as a dream, I become more real...I divulge my quirks, my awkward personality, my flaws. "A way of sending myself out into the world without suffering those anticipated consequences." And with that one magical click, it felt like I was creating a person--bringing into existence a me from another dimension.

I have been utterly tormented since I first 'hotlisted' you back. That is why I have tried repeatedly to extricate both you and me from this situation. though you never replied to the email, I wrote that I wished I had met you under different circumstances--this is true. Yet I don't regret meeting you or the pregnancy scare of any of it. The truth is that I have, for all intents and purposes, become Emily. I spent six months learning about myself, my flaws, my weaknesses, my quirks, all of it. I hated the way I had treated you, and the way I had treated myself. So, for six months, whenever I thought of you, or, as I said, a cruel observation of others, I shhh'ed myself. The emails are all true; if you read through them, you'll see that no 'prior' information was used to manipulate you. The profile is almost entirely true. It was not written to bait you; in fact, you hotlisted two of my other fake profiles, which I deleted soon thereafter. I suppose curiosity got the best of me this time around.

I hated receiving the email of you opening up, not because I didn't wish you could share with me, but because you were doing so under false pretenses. I hate that it got this far, and if you read over my emails, I hope you'll be able to use your powers of perception to acknowledge that I tried to gently allow you your dream without hurting you.

The tragedy in all of this is that, had I not met you, I would not have been who I am today, I could not have written that profile because I would not have known enough about myself to do so; however, now that you know it is me, I can assume no other response than hurt, anger, and betrayal. And I am sorry for this. Throughout, I wrestled with telling you, and surely hurting you and your dream, or breaking up with you as Emily, which also would have hurt you, or disappearing (which I tried to do, but knew that also must have hurt you). In short, this progressed away from me and I still don't know if this is the best way, but I simply do not know how to handle this.

I can only hope desperately that you knew all along, and were instead toying with me, though I feel I am not to get off that easy.

And I can only end in saying that I do exist. I am not a baker, I do not live in Chicago (again, both wishes).

But I exist.

Lexi"

***
As I finish typing these last few lines, Jeff Buckley serenades me with a more perfect ending than I would have ever provided:

Well Baby I've been here before
I've seen this room, and I've walked this floor,
You know, I used to live alone before I knew you
And I've seen your flag on the marble arch
And Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Well, maybe there's a god above
But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you
It's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah

And that, dear reader, is the end of our tale.

For now, at least.