21. Whispers in the Dark

Julian spent some time reading his last attempt at a novel, and came away depleted. It was as if the book had sucked the life out of him without becoming alive itself. It was a black hole of fictional death. That being the case, it was more fun to check out the doings on “Amy Tells All.” Now that they had made contact, he could legitimately see himself echoed in her prose. He felt completely enraptured by the idea that she thought his presence in her life was miraculous. He turned his attention to crafting a bauble of equal froth, but in his own way. He was not sure that he succeeded. He mused about the fact that his novel was a pile of shit. If that amused her, it seemed to him, she’d take him as he truly was. He posted it.

By the time he got back downstairs again, Dana was passed out on her couch. He looked around for the schweinebraten recipe, so that he’d know when it was done and take it out. He couldn’t find anything. Dana was working from memory on this pig roast project. He googled it. ‘Take it out ahead of the ideal temperature of 180 degrees, so that the meat does not become dry or tough.’ OK. He grabbed some firewood off the porch and set about making a fire, Julian style. He unfurled the wrapper of a chemical and sawdust log and lit it. He went and got a drink. He sat before his nascent fire, musing on Lana/Amy. He wondered just what it would be like to talk to her. He wondered what her voice sounded like. He wondered if he’d ever hear from her again. He put a log on the fire and sat down at the desk in his study. His good old desktop computer was open to the scene of his last word thrashing session. He cruised over to Gmail. He found Lana’s latest, sent just hours before. He read the venomous sentences in the first part and was made to understand that this woman was perhaps less vulnerable than “Amy” let on. She spanked him but good for snooping. And she was, as he already knew, married. She now declared it. However, she then went out on a suggestive limb. All of a sudden, he felt himself become helplessly aroused by her come on. Wasn’t that what this bit about ‘liking older men’ was? The breathless imprecation to write to her, for her, in public, in private; he could not wait to begin typing. He had met his midlife muse.

Lana had to work the 23rd of December. She went in early and used the computer in the law firm to blog. That was her intention, but instead she found herself reading Julian. “Andrés” had a load of crap about his busted book. She snorted at her desk. She flew to her email client and began to write:
“Dearest old goat,
I say polish that pile ‘o shit.
You might safely ignore advice about not talking about writing on a writer’s blog.
I don’t mind hearing about the agony of your ecstasy. (Or vice versa.)
I seem to hear echoes of my miracle in your mystery.
I am a pea in your wry pod,
Love,
Lana/Amy.”

Then, she squeezed out a blog post before getting to work. With Scott back for the duration of the holidays, the law office became the writing refuge. She knew that Scott would forget all about the recipe blogging scheme until he caught on to her blogging in general. Her hope was that he would perceive himself to have given permission. She might need to put up a recipe. This she now turned her attention to. It would be a good thing if it could also somehow appeal to her professor. Oddly enough, though he knew much about her, she knew next to nothing, really, about him. She might need to google Julian Gray. She had a pile of interrogatives to work on, and dictation, but she ‘wasted’ a bit more of the firm’s time and looked for her prof. There he was, in his rumpled suit at Blue Ridge Community College. He looked a fright. She could see, though, that as a young man, he might have broken some hearts. His eyes shone with the holy light. She whispered the name at her desk, “John Julian Gray, what say you to me today? Are you just a hill away? Are my words for you to say? Oh my, my Julian Gray!