Hermes Online by Rose Anderson

“What a day,” I grumbled, feeling mentally exhausted and strained to my soul. Since Dan and I ended our relationship on that horrible note, nothing seemed to go right anymore. I lost a very important landmark today, one hundred fifty-four years old, a stately impressive mansion owned by an early prominent businessman in my area. It was perfect and haled back to a simpler time when people did the right thing, the good thing… The house would be coming down within the month, the second significant landmark lost in as many years. Why couldn’t they see? Did everything have to make way for progress? Was the new chain store really that necessary?

“See ya tomorrow, Vivienne, have a good night,” came a voice from across the parking lot aisle. I instantly recognized it as belonging to my assistant, Audrey.

“Damn it,” I muttered under my breath. I didn’t want anyone to see the tears welling in my eyes. I frantically tried to blink them away and mentally begged her not to come closer. Only half turning in her direction, I replied, “You too.” To my relief she got in her car and drove away.

In my emotional state I pressed the electronic car lock button a little too firmly and took a substantial chip out of my day-old manicure. My gaze flew to the damage. “Damn it!” I reiterated between clenched teeth. What else could go wrong? Opening the door to my Honda, I let my briefcase fly to the passenger side, but no sooner had the haphazard strap left my hand than it snagged my pantyhose, a new pair right out of the package just that morning.

“Ooh, come on.” I turned the key in the ignition, but instead of putting the car in gear, I put my finger in my mouth. The two pointy edges of my broken nail were sharp against my tongue, and the tears unshed a moment ago ran freely now. Eying the half-moon divot in my fingernail, I sat there thinking of the waste. What a waste had become my mantra as of late, right next to what a shame. Biting off the points, I pulled the lacquered bits from my tongue, rolled down the window, and scattered them to the parking lot as I drove home.

By the time I got there, I was drained. I just couldn’t seem to stop rehashing that meeting’s sad outcome sucking me out to sea like a riptide. After checking the pile of mail under the slot at the door and picking the grain from the chaff so to speak, I headed upstairs to take a long hot bath. My brain was now in overdrive, and my soul was hurting, in more ways than one.

An hour later, my comfort dinner of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my hand, I found myself at my desk looking for anything to take my mind off things for a while. I connected to my mail server. The familiar “You’ve got mail” voice came over my speaker, informing me my inbox was full. Yeah, I’ve been busy lately. My emails at home had taken a back seat to my more pressing emails at work.

“Junk.” I clicked a spam email away to the trash bin. “Junk.” Another followed. I read them off. “My mortgage can be better, eh? I’m pre-approved? Sure I am. Junk, Junk… No, thank you. Junk.”

I smiled seeing an email from Andrea. My best friend, an aspiring poet, occasionally sent me links to her most recent literary find but mostly sent me jokes and forwarded video clips of driving chimps or talking dogs. I could use a talking dog barking out I love you to the camera right about now. My aching heart and mind were just this far from seeing me seriously depressed with my head buried under the pillows in my dark bedroom for who knows how long.

Her email read:

Too emotionally raw in that moment to reflect on her parting words. “You always sense when I’m feeling down.” Since I desperately needed a smile, I followed the link.

Wow. Talking dog take a back seat.

I wasn’t prepared for a link to an adult literature site and nearly forgot how to swallow my bite of sandwich. At a glance there were tens of thousands of stories in a range of topics authors posted for their myriad reasons. It didn’t appear to be a site that paid you for your work. Apparently people contributed what they wished to share. Taking a moment to reply to her find, I sent her an email sidestepping the soul-stealing comment.

Scanning the site was an eye-opener. I was all for internet open source and freedom, and admittedly some titles caught my eye while others were just plain revolting to me. “Eww,” I said, seeing a particular nasty fetish title. Not for me. Nope, not that one either. Scrolling down I clicked on an intriguing title that led to a rather steamy story. Mmm. Nice. Diverting, yes it was. After reading two, I had a comfortable feeling brewing between my legs, and then suddenly the warm feeling became a bruise in the hollow of my belly. Dan.

Since Dan and I broke up, the thought of ever exposing myself to that kind of hurt again…well…I’d live in a cloister first. Thinking of him was like playing with those two martial arts sticks joined on one end with a linked chain. Nunchucks. The word popped into my head. Oh sure, you could hold them, but try to spin nunchucks like Jet Li, and more times than not, they caught you right in the armpit, forehead, or chin.

To sum up our two-year relationship, he told me I was dull in bed. Dull. So dull in fact he needed to have an affair. Needed to. That was funny coming from him. He thought exciting was a dish of hot wings, a full bag of potato chips, a twelve-pack of Bud, and bouncing breasts and ass cheeks on cheerleaders during halftime. What a thing to say. People define themselves by many things. And women put our own sex appeal in the top ten.

I pictured him in my mind’s eye, our bed sheet wrapped around his lower half, the smirking implant-breasted cheerleader naked in my bed. I heard his words again exactly as he yelled them and recalled how they pummeled me as I ran out the door and from my house in tears. They had an indelible quality, like a stain that wouldn’t wash out. “You are so dull I had to have sex with a real woman.”

“You never really knew me, asshole,” I said to the cosmos, hoping somewhere in Chicago the thought inspired a pigeon to crap on his head at the Bear’s game I was certain he was at tonight.

Needing to push that memory away, I read another submitted piece of erotica in an attempt to shove said asshole out of my mind. To my relief it wasn’t difficult, not when I’d chosen a story delineated as a hot read by the five chili peppers next to the title. “Ooh…steamy.”

At the end of each story, readers had a chance to leave a rating. I didn’t leave a message even though that was an option. Instead I gave it five out of five peppers. Swallowing the last bite of sandwich, I licked the grape jelly from my fingers and clicked on another title.

“Oh my.” I felt tingly all over, like I had been involved in a two-hour long foreplay. Ha, like Dan would ever consider such a thing. I left another five out of five. I wanted to leave a ten.

Out of the blue I found myself mentally adding an extra scene to the established character’s storyline. Yes, that would have wrapped it up better. A curious flutter tickled low in my belly. I was feeling sexual for just a moment, and the thought surprised me. I hadn’t felt sexy in nearly a year. I looked drab, I dressed drab, I felt drab. Of course my thoughts went back to Dan’s parting assessment. Feeling the old hurt anew, my imagination manifested a blob of pigeon poop on the end of the hotdog he was unknowingly going to bite. Shaking him away with the rest of my horrid day, I stared at the words on the screen, lost in thought.

Ages ago, at a time when I actually believed myself a sexual being, I’d written a story, a fanciful erotic romp full of compelling sensual imagery. My story was about seduction. Anyone can have sex, and as the story titles proved on my new favorite website, it came in many flavors. My story was meant to seduce, for like many women, I get turned on when seduction is involved. A few mouse clicks later, I found the buried Word document. “I knew this was in here somewhere.”

I grinned reading it. It was good. In fact it was better than the one I’d just given a five out of five. Looking for corrections, I only had to rephrase one sentence before I gave it a ten out of ten score. Rereading had me remembering the female power and confidence I once had. I also remembered the jade-eyed impetus that had me write such a thing, and the memories of happier days and abiding love ignited a little smile in my heart.

Several years ago, long before Dan trod on my soul, for shits and grins, I wrote a little story based on a conversation I had with friends one night. Of the six of us at the time, two were under-employed and one was unemployed. Inspired by a magnum of Pinot Grigio, we got to laughing about what they were qualified to do, and the topic turned to phone-sex operator. We laughed and toyed with how we’d answer the phone but really be doing dishes. “Yes, honey, I am taking a bath…all soapy and slick…” Or folding laundry in our sweats with the phone propped on our shoulder. “Yes, baby, I’m wearing a see-through negligee. Can’t you see my hard nipples?” Good god, what a hilarious night that was. With these happy thoughts, a sudden flight of fancy took me. I brought the literature site on screen once more and considered. I stared at the computer, talking to myself. Mine’s pretty good, creatively speaking. It’s better than half of the other stuff I’ve read in the last hour. That’s my opinion anyway. I was slowly convincing myself to post my story. Finally I said to the empty house, “I’ll do it.”

It took me a while to discover just how to make an account and upload my file, but I was pretty sure it went okay. I set the “accept comments” to yes, read one more erotic tale, then took myself to bed.

The next day went pretty much the same. It was all ordinances and requests for special variances so Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones could get their windows and roof on before winter. All in all my day went pretty well, filled as it was imagining how my story was received. Did I have chilis? How many? I liked it, but did anyone else? Dan flashed before my eyes and dashed cold water over me. Was it dull?

At home I settled down to dinner with a cardboard box of takeout, feeling a little lonely at that moment. Chinese should never be eaten alone. It should have company. It needs people to laugh with when you crack open your cookie and add the phrase “in the bedroom” to every fortune. I well knew the schedules of my friends. Unfortunately tonight I was on my own.

I powered up my computer to check my inbox. “You’ve got mail” came over the speaker. Wow. I had no less than a half dozen people comment on my story. How cool is this? I read them one by one:

I warmed in the praise, and the yoke of “dull” felt a tad lighter on my shoulders. For the first time in a year I was beginning to feel sexual again. I read more, their words a sensual lifeline pulling me from a sea of negative self images.

Out of nowhere the chimera raised its ugly head and whispered, “There are thousands of readers on this site and a mere handful responded. How bored were the others they passed you by without comment?” The chimera won. I shut the computer off and put on a movie, a love story. I watched the main couple interact but had my own story running simultaneously, my own movie flickering in the back of my brain. In it I was pointed at and ridiculed and told in no uncertain terms I was less because I wasn’t a plastic-breasted, ass-jiggling, porn-star cheerleader with a case of beer in one hand and a plate of hot wings in the other.

“Why?” I asked the lead actor, superimposing Dan’s face there. Why would another person end a relationship that way? Why not just be nice and say, “This isn’t working out. I wish you well”? Why eviscerate? Why diminish the other person’s psyche? I felt a hot tear on my cheek. It’s not that we were deeply in love, but I thought we were at least friends. I thought we were. I went to bed feeling more than a little low.

The following week was a busy one. Overloaded with meetings, requests for variances, and project deadlines as I was, my fan mail temporarily slipped my mind.

A bit of water-cooler conversation late afternoon on Thursday left me feeling particularly low. The first request for zoning information on the Hornsby property had come in and pen hadn’t even been put to paper to sign off on its demolition. Greedy speculators. Needless to say, Thursday was one of those really-need-a-pat-on-the-back days. I didn’t receive one at work, but the drive home had me thinking about checking the literature site. I found myself suddenly craving a good word and wished someone had read my story and liked it enough to write a nice review.

After paperwork and dinner, I made a cup of tea and went to see if any comments had been posted. I felt a measure of panic when I looked for the title and it didn’t come up right away. The spectre of self-doubt looming over my shoulder immediately determined the site managers declared it “too dull, had to delete.” I was surprised to discover my story had been moved. Within a week it had a string of peppers and made the Hot List. More than that, I now had a dozen comments, and they were all very complimentary. One in particular stood out:

I stopped and reread. This was an intelligent person. In some respects the words written here might even be considered a challenge. I sent a coquettish reply, the words implying far more confidence than I really possessed.

I bit my lip, debating to the last second if this was something I should do. What if this person wanted more? I wasn’t sure I liked the C2C world of the internet where computer cameras linked conversations—and come to think of it, I really wasn’t all that into chat either. Needing human interaction tonight, I eventually convinced myself that as long as this person stayed talking in email it would be fine. I clicked send.

The happy male voice announcing “You’ve got mail” over the speaker came loud enough to make me jump. The reply was so quick it startled me.

Wow. Another challenge. I wrote back,

Once more the tiny envelope popped into my mailbox. “You’ve got mail.” He was on the computer at the same time as I was. Imagining that somehow he could see me there through the computer screen sent a small shiver up my back and across my shoulders.

Green eyes. I smiled. I loved green eyes, especially ones that changed shades with the color of clothes or the mood. Sighing with my visual memory, I searched my mind for what he called my palette. The paints in my personal paint box had long since dried out. I reread the last email… Describe yourself to me in full vivid color. Did I even have anything beyond shades of gray anymore? I pictured Dan with erectile dysfunction. The thought added water to my dried-out paints.

I read it, and then, surprised by the image these simple words evoked, I read it again. I could see this color, yes, I did look this way, this was me. I wasn’t a black and white and gray being after all. These simple words I found to describe myself implied I was filled with color. With that realization making my heart beat faster, I clicked send.

There was no instant reply. I could feel it, feel the rise of doubt coming up like a bubble from a sinking submarine. But this time I pushed it away. I looked in my email’s sent folder and reread my painted description once more. To my surprise, my smile returned, and somewhere in my mind, a rainbow started to form—a monochrome rainbow, but a bridge across the pallor of my gray sky.