Dear Stuart by Arletta H. Sloan
Chapter One: An Unfortunate Marriage
She sat in her teensy flat, legs propped up high upon the ottoman with cushions, another cushion tucked under her laptop, to bring it into comfortable view, feeling the good effects of the Italian Wedding soup which she had popped the top on, lightly spiced, heated, and eated, only shortly before. Well, if the truth be told, the eating was sometime before, and,during, the watching. The point being that she sat in a state of some warmth, some coolth, since her bottom was still perched upon the cushion that had been dampened by her wet shorts, earlier, before she had changed into her caftan, and, let herself relax into exactly the sort of tale that appealed to her best: something British, old fashioned, that made good points about life in general, had a likeable character or two,and, of course, was about love.
Having just reached an agreeable part of the story, wherein an elder gentleman was showing his young fiance about his estate, her mind was almost off of what her mind was usually on, when, something the elder gentleman said reminded her of that very issue which she sought, most heartedly, not to think upon.
Yes, there were other bits that had reminded her of it, as well. To tell the truth, there was very little in life that did not remind her of the issue, which, in some respects, is because she was a woman of discernment, intelligence, who was capable of extrapolating information and making comparisons. In fact, she would have much enjoyed just the sort of activity that the elder gentleman in the Middle March show had been discussing with his young fiance, which was the onerous task of comparing all mythologies, to prove that they were derived, all, from one original source. She had done much the same, on a smaller scale and as mere hobby, as a young girl, teenager, young adult, and, probably since, as well. But, in fact, the majority of the reason why so much of life reminded her of the issue was that the issue was all about a man, her feelings for him, his possible feelings for her and what they might be, and, everything else that one could conceive of which might have to do with anything she knew of the man, feelings, or love in general.
For love it was, and, that, dear friend, is why she could not stop thinking of him. To the point that, as much as she enjoyed the show, she heard the elder gentleman make a comment about how his aunt had made an unfortunate marriage, examined that statement in her mind, compared it to the advice of well-meaning people who, much like the man she tried not to think of, told her that she could do better than someone of his distance from her, and, most especially, his state of health. And, then, she began writing a book, instead of watching said show. That book you are reading now. However, she did (is) still continuing the story, all the same. Upon its continuance, she noted a promise of future pain, in the form of a young man who is related to the elder gentleman. She was not amused.
What is the point of this book? It has many. A temporary exorcism of her muddled thoughts; a means of communicating to him the truth, such as it is known, as to how and why things went the way they did, and, who she is; and, of course, a means of self expression and relief of stress, because, you see, she is a writer. She could no more cease to write than she could cease to love, however prudent either might be. And, of course, it is the beginning of the longest love letter in history, or so she does believe; for, if the man cannot be reached by email, due to the persons who prevent it from coming to him, except in garbled fashion, and, if the man cannot be reached at the mailing address she was given for him (which she only recently found out was, in fact, the address for a furniture store – which is a fact that should help explain some of what is meant by “garbled fashion”), and, if the man cannot be reached by phone (as she cannot bloody well afford it), then, the man shall be reached by mass publication.
Who is the man, do you ask? He shall not be mentioned by name, enough for you to hound him. Suffice it to say, he is called Stuart and he lives a grand distance away from her. Oh, you want more? He is the most beautiful man in existence. Does that help you any? Not if you are in love, for you are quite sure it is your man who is, and, I am quite sure you are correct. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, or, in this case, in the brain of the one who wishes to behold. Therefore, he is your beauty, and, I wish you the beholding of it. I would rather be holding mine.
So, that helps you none at all, does it? It helps me, none at all, as well. Yet, this is the truth, that, he is the most beautiful man in existence. His voice is like silken butterscotch, which is a very strange thing for butterscotch to be, but, a very sumptuous, sensual thing, as well. It, when taking to becoming voice, coils and slides in through the ear canal, and enwraps the drum, pulsing gently and bringing it as much joy as it brings befuddlement. Then, it slides back away, leaving one longing for it's warmth and soft caress.
Does he know of this perfection? But, no. He is prone to telling her, when he allows her some measure of his company, that he is nowhere near as fine in form as he is in photograph. Then, there is the matter of his health, which he, like others, feels should put a damper on her admiration. And, oh yes, it is a rare, bad, state of health, to be sure, from what she is told. It matters not. That is, it does matter, because she would not have him feel a pain, or consider himself lessened in any way, but, all the same, it changes nothing for her, except in an academic fashion.
Academic? Yes. When one feels all “in sickness and in health” about someone – truly feels that way – then, there is no release from that feeling simply because sickness does, in fact, happen. And, no matter what anyone thinks – even if they are the most beautiful man in existence – it is not a feeling one can be released from, by a lack of having taken the vow, from whence it came, either. So, there is no feeling of “Phew! I am well out of that one!” or “Oh, no! I had better find a way out of that one.” or anything of that nature. It is all a matter of purest academia. One wants to discover, when one thinks of how one dreams of the touch of their beloved, if, in fact, mechanically, this or that or the other would work. Or, perhaps that is a womanly thing. All I know is that it is no good having even the lightest fantasy, where one cannot be sure that the actual actions are able to be taken. Not when the fantasy is in regard to what one hopes for in reality. So, the question is not “Do I love?” or “Is there attraction?” but, “Can he get into that position?” If not, then, one ceases to think of it, and, moves on to a position he can get into. Otherwise, it's all much the same, because the fantasy is not about a selfish need for a quick relieving of physical urges, but, it is a reaching forth toward a hoped for future. So, yes, in the academic is the fashion in which things are changed, and, nothing else.
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