Chapter Text
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Reality slaps me hard in the face via a camera lens. My insecurities kept me from asking him about his appearance, as I would panic if he requested the same from me. I was fine with not knowing as I’d already envisioned several images in my head; different role-plays require costume changes.
But now, all I see is him. His eyes reflecting the glow of his monitor, making them sparkle. He’s sitting so close that I want to type my name just to see it reflected in those deep blues.
Thinking back, my perception of him is sharpening with each memory. It’s his face I now see in the Starfleet uniform. It’s those plump lips that catch my eye when he’s passionately thrusting on top of me.
Is that a mole by his bottom lip or just a speck on my screen? People have painted on beauty marks for years, and this guy gets one for free.
I wipe my monitor with the back of my sleeve.
No, it’s just dust.
The key question is, do I feel upset he robbed me of my ability to visualise him the way I desire?
Fuck. No.
Because he’s more beautiful than I ever could have imagined.
One_Trek_Mind: I accept bank transfers.
I sit and study the arrogance of my blinking cursor. It stands there egging me on, shouting to a monotonous beat. “Come on… say something… do something….” But I can’t. All I can do is stare as he sits there, waiting for my reply. I take a screenshot before I can talk myself out of it and file the image away for when I’m alone. A trick I learnt from him.
One_Trek_Mind: Hello?
The confusion on his face has me sliding back to reality. His smile falls as he glances into the camera for a split second before it turns black.
One_Trek_Mind: Sorry, forgot I still had it on. I guess you have the advantage.
He doesn’t need to say it. I understand what he’s saying. But I’m still not ready to go as far as he did, even though it was accidental. Looking around the room, I notice a small makeup mirror on a shelf by the bed. The angle is just right for me to see my features from a distance. Do I start head to toe, or do I list my best features first? Where to begin?
Lady_W: My eyes are blue.
I’ll leave the vibrant details for another time. Wouldn’t want to overwhelm the poor bloke.
Lady_W: I’m 5’0” and a half.
Lady_W: I’m ginger.
One_Trek_Mind: Is it long?
Lady_W: It’s just past my shoulders. And I have a bit of a sweeping fringe too.
Freely giving it away now. Next time I’ll tell him my PIN code.
Racking my brain, I try to think of a way to describe the rest of me. Maybe substituting the harsh reality of the word “fat” with something more forgiving. A half-truth, perhaps?
Would curvy suffice?
It’s not a lie, but some would debate that curvy should apply to someone like Beyoncé and not me. Perhaps disclosing a dress size would help? To his credit, he may be oblivious to the complex sizing system of the female form.
One_Trek_Mind: I’d say that makes us even.
“W-what?” I stutter aloud.
No intrusive request for details. No cryptic interrogation to figure out the size of my boobs?
Lady_W: You sure?
One_Trek_Mind: Absolutely. You know my name, and what I look like, and now I can say the same.
Yeah, it sounds like we’re definitely even, I think with a smile.
***
I crack open one eye and leave behind one of the best dreams I’ve had in months. I was a princess in a foreign land, being held captive in a medieval castle; Colin’s face glowed with clarity. His brown locks gleamed in the evening sun as he fought faceless strangers to rescue me.
My sluggish arm slumps over the side of the bed as I dig around for my phone. I eventually find it discarded deep inside my shoe.
The bright light burns my retinas as I unlock the screen and check my email. One is from my lecturer telling everybody this afternoon’s studio time is cancelled. The second is from my mum, narrating a minute-by-minute account of her latest trip to the countryside. I skip most of it and scroll to the most relevant parts at the bottom.
She wants me to come home for the weekend. I suck on the inside of my cheek as I ponder my choices. Beans on toast again, or dinner with my mother and her thousand pictures of sheep?
I’ll tell her I’ve got revision to do. That usually works.
The last email is from Colin. But before I read this morning’s edition, I sit up and finger-comb my hair into a semblance of order.
Now I’m ready.
He sends them in the early morning hours before work nowadays. After the incident with his first email, we both agreed it was safer to pen all messages in a child/boss/lecture/professor-free environment. So far, so good.
This’ll be the fifth email in a fortnight I’ve received from Colin, and every one of them has been top tier. I’ve read each about four times and even printed one and stuck it to my wall. I embellished it with a flamboyant border and a pair of hearts in the corners. Thirteen-year-old me would be proud.
Sender: Colin Bridgerton
Subject: Good morning.
My dearest Penelope.
I’ve started most of my emails to you this way and only now do I see the potential problem. Is the word “dearest” too old-fashioned? Or perhaps I’m not old and grey enough to use it yet. Maybe it’s only reserved for people that smoke a pipe or own at least one cravat.
It brings to mind those black and white films. You know the ones. The man would sit in a high-backed leather chair, wearing a smoking jacket whilst reading a newspaper. While his beloved lazes on a chaise lounge, with a martini in one hand and one of those long cigarettes in the other.
But I digress. The real reason for this early morning email is to tell you that the Deputy Head called for a meeting before and after school today. So, I might be a little late coming home for our arranged chat.
Miss you already.
Colin
Without hesitation, I pen a reply.
Sender: Penelope Featherington
Subject: Carry on, my dearest.
Dearest Colin,
When I was but a wee nipper, I believed the word “dearest” was only used by the old codger down the road. However, your short ramblings have intrigued me.
I say we bring it back. Anything to help abolish the vile terms of endearment I’ve heard people using nowadays. The ones like “baby”, “sweet-cheeks” and “sugar-tits”, need to go.
Now that I think about it, why settle with just bringing back “dearest”? Let’s reintroduce all the weird ones.
A little digging and I’ve already found some old-fashioned ones like “Heart’s Gleam” and “Lambkin”. Or, if you fancy something sweeter, our student union serves “Snickerdoodles” and “Strawberry Shortcake”. Personally, I wouldn't mind if you called me your little "Strawberry Shortcake".
Just some food for thought.
P.S. Don’t worry about me, I’ve plenty of things to keep me occupied until you get home. At the time of typing this, I only have eight hours to kill. Piece of cake.
Yours
Penelope
Not three minutes later, I receive a reply. With eager fingers, I open the email. Am I going to be his snickerdoodle or Strawberry Shortcake?
Sender: Colin Bridgerton
Subject: Emergency.
Penelope
I need your phone number. I can’t explain. Hurry!
Colin
I stare at my phone, rereading the message again. He never acts like this. I’m confused. What’s he up to?
Ding!
The noise startles me enough that I almost drop my phone.
Sender: Colin Bridgerton
Subject: EMERGENCY!
Please hurry. There isn’t much time.
Colin
“Ok, Ok.” I say aloud as I type in my digits. No matter what happens next, I will fully express my discomfort to him and firmly request that this behaviour not happen again. He better have a damn good reason for all of this.
The phone lies silently in my hands as I wait for his call; the anticipation is like a heavy weight on my chest. I reflect upon that familiar voice, the enthusiasm of hearing it once more fills my thoughts. Wait, this means he’s going to hear my voice, too. I clear my throat and perform a vocal scale reminiscent of The Sound of Music, though nowhere near as good. After a couple more minutes, my excitement turns to nerves, then to worry.
Where is he?
More minutes go by and still not a peep. I log into the chatroom and check for his name. Nothing.
Ten minutes after that, I send him another email.
Sender: Penelope Featherington
Subject: Where are you?
Colin, what’s wrong? Why haven’t you called me?
Pen
An hour later and I’ve bitten my nails down to the quick. He still hasn’t called. Not even an email. Nada.
I hope he's okay.
