This is a story about a story. Does that make sense to you? You found one Chapter of the story, do you wonder how our hero got there? Why does it begin at Chapter Six and not One?
It all begins at a party. Well, no that's not going back far enough. It all begins, as so many stories like this do, with a chance encounter many years past. A brief introduction, a smile. Perhaps it begins there or possibly the characters are too distracted and the details of face and name are blurred and forgotten before a lasting impression is made. For one at least, the impression was made. Not on heart, not yet, but on mind. Years later that smile can be called up from memory, the face, the voice. Of course, there were many meetings after that one, and many chances for that face to become one that is imprinted on both mind and heart. That is it's own story, and while it is at the center of this one - the very reason this story exists in fact - it needs to be told in it's own time.
So we go back to the party. He is there, and so is she. Three years have passed, and not a word spoken. Neither one seem to want to break the silence, or perhaps they simply don't know how. It may be that both feel there is a door between them, firmly locked, and neither holds the key. A third - also part of all these stories - is also in attendance at the party. He holds the key. To the surprise of both, he turns key in lock and opens the door. Neither crosses the threshold, but still, the door stands open.
Fast forward a day, or was it two? She sits and idly goes from here to there, reading news, gossip, messages from friends. As is her habit, she checks the local personals ads, always fascinated to see how people will pour out their hearts to the ether. One click and she begins to read his message. Is it him? The rhythm of the writing is so familiar, the words just as he would choose them. She waits. A day, two days, as she wonders, considers, and then ultimately decides. She sends a brief message "Are you who I think you are?" and nervously waits for a response.
"No," comes the reply. "If I am who you think I am, you would know me by my writing. And I would know you by one word.". She knows a word, but hesitates to use it, unsure of the reasons why. So she replies, but without the word, and the conversation, this story, begins.
It all begins at a party. Well, no that's not going back far enough. It all begins, as so many stories like this do, with a chance encounter many years past. A brief introduction, a smile. Perhaps it begins there or possibly the characters are too distracted and the details of face and name are blurred and forgotten before a lasting impression is made. For one at least, the impression was made. Not on heart, not yet, but on mind. Years later that smile can be called up from memory, the face, the voice. Of course, there were many meetings after that one, and many chances for that face to become one that is imprinted on both mind and heart. That is it's own story, and while it is at the center of this one - the very reason this story exists in fact - it needs to be told in it's own time.
So we go back to the party. He is there, and so is she. Three years have passed, and not a word spoken. Neither one seem to want to break the silence, or perhaps they simply don't know how. It may be that both feel there is a door between them, firmly locked, and neither holds the key. A third - also part of all these stories - is also in attendance at the party. He holds the key. To the surprise of both, he turns key in lock and opens the door. Neither crosses the threshold, but still, the door stands open.
Fast forward a day, or was it two? She sits and idly goes from here to there, reading news, gossip, messages from friends. As is her habit, she checks the local personals ads, always fascinated to see how people will pour out their hearts to the ether. One click and she begins to read his message. Is it him? The rhythm of the writing is so familiar, the words just as he would choose them. She waits. A day, two days, as she wonders, considers, and then ultimately decides. She sends a brief message "Are you who I think you are?" and nervously waits for a response.
"No," comes the reply. "If I am who you think I am, you would know me by my writing. And I would know you by one word.". She knows a word, but hesitates to use it, unsure of the reasons why. So she replies, but without the word, and the conversation, this story, begins.
