Infactuations

After typing "The Gift" I pulled out the napkin and typed in Immortal Beloved's blog. It was less of a dialog, and more a discussion of her unrequited infatuation:

You were wearing jeans today, and I could feel my heart racing as you shuffled by. So close. I was seated, burning for you as you stood in line to return your tray. I could have reached for your button fly right there and satisfied myself in front of the whole cafeteria. Trust me, my sweet, those buttons will be at my mercy sooner or later. I will have my reward, my love. Tonight your jeans and their stitched pockets are draped over my ankles as my body melts for you.

I couldn't remember who was sitting near the tray return line at lunch. The other two addresses from the napkin included similar posts, although they did not seem to pertain exclusively to me. Or, maybe they were just veiled enough to leave some doubt. It was the dull, persistent throbbing of paranoia pushing me off course. I tried to take it easy. I did not know whether to scold the skeptic or the dreamer. Reason insisted I scold the dreamer, as always. And as always, it killed me to do so.

I was restless in bed that night. I should have left my chaste lifestyle out of my blog. It was really a private thing. I wouldn't want a woman to love me for my abstinence. I made this clear in my writing. It was not the definition of my being or personality, just a lifestyle choice. On the other hand, maybe the man they desired would commit to such a thing. Then again, maybe everyone just wants whatever they can't have.

If these were indeed my secret lovers, and they were reading and responding to my poems, I figured "The Gift" would yield at some idea of the magnitude of the phenomenon.