Flash fiction #321

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Jason Sandford

Jason Sandford is a reporter, writer, blogger and photographer interested in all things Asheville.

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Delete me.

Jack couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He’d stared so hard at the 14-inch laptop screen that he was starting to see individual pixels, staring so hard that the damn pixels had started to move… spin… blur. He tried to make it stop.

He rubbed his eyes, and the pastel pink Powerbook nearly slid off his lap. He grabbed it up angrily, slammed it shut. He tossed it on the ebony, lacquer-topped table next to him and took a slug from the scotch-and-water sitting atop the wooden coaster to his left.

Delete me.

What the fuck, man? Jack felt out of step with time and felt the swell of a deep panic as his thoughts raced. He wanted to run, but the panic paralyzed him. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t find his voice.

He pressed the heels of his palms harder into his eye sockets and felt a burning sensation behind his lids. Tilting his graying head back, he peered into the shadows of the lodge’s ceiling timbers, hovering like rough-hewn fingers waiting to grab him up. What the fuck, man? The people in the lounge around him continued to speak quietly around their candlelit tables, oblivious.

He’d never questioned his connection with Faye. It simply was, and always had been, Faye, as far as Jack was concerned. Fair Faye. Freckled Faye. She exuded a confident self-assuredness, even when he first met her at 21 in Vail.

Sure, she knew men were attracted to her fresh-faced good looks, but Jack knew she relished the seduction of the mind more than conquering the body. He’d always admired that about her. He was a successful turbocharge-engine designer, but this was one power equation he could never work out. He went with it.

Delete me.

Jack reached for his drink, and this time it was the suede jacket on the back of his chair that slipped away. He picked it up, really noticing for the first time the soft, brushed fabric. The jacket Faye had given him for his 40th birthday.

He felt the burning sensation at the top of his head again and squinted. She’s gone, she’s gone, he told himself, trying to make it real. But it made no sense, no sense at all. A bad fall down a slope in Jackson Hole – how can a bump on the head kill someone?

But it had. It had, goddamn it, and that was three weeks ago so get the fuck over it, he snarled at himself.

Now this.

Faye, delete me.

When he’d opened her laptop in the lounge, all he was looking for was some damn Social Security number or something to satisfy the insurance company. He didn’t have any intention of snooping. But he had shakily fumbled over the keyboard, and up popped Faye’s e-mail. He glanced through, and spotted one from “Ward.”

Ward who? The subject line read simply, “Delete me.”

Jack read the note. Over and over, he read, staring so hard that the pixels seemed to brand his retinas. There really was no reason to, though, Jack told himself. It was all pretty clear. Twenty-four fucking years of marriage to Faye, and all he had was this:

Faye, my love. Faye, my sweet. Faye, delete me.
I can’t go on like this. We can’t go on like this. My god, you rip my soul, knowing you’re still there with him after all we’ve been through together. Why? After all we’ve shared. Christmas in Manhattan. The French Quarter. Our pier – our pier, Faye – on the coast. When we make love, I feel every fiber of your being strain for me. How can that be wrong? Tell me? How?
Delete me. I can’t do this. Burn my letters. Scrub yourself clean of me. Kill this note, this harddrive. Not one more word, nor glance nor touch of you, or I swear I will not be able to go on.

Delete me.

Jason Sandford

Jason Sandford is a reporter, writer, blogger and photographer interested in all things Asheville.

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