the (fabricated) story of my ring, part iii.

Quite some time ago, I posted a fictional series on my previous blog about the origin of my engagement ring. Truthfully, we found the set in an antique store in Micanopy, a small town outside of our college town. The woman who sold it to us knew very little about the set, other then when it was likely made. I have always been enamored with history, mostly because I love imagining people's lives and the goings-on during different time periods. The series is still one of my favorite things I've ever written, and for that reason I'd like to re-publish it here. It is entirely fictional and has no truth to it whatsoever, although it is fun to imagine otherwise. 

Part 1, here.
Part 2, here.

As George walked out of his apartment, he mourned for his typewriter. So much hard work had been tapped into those keys and it felt strange and a bit depressing to let it go. George wondered if other people had attachments to inanimate objects like the attachment he felt to his typewriter. Probably not, he thought to himself. He needed to make more friends.

Nadine stood perfectly still in her apartment. She walked to the kitchen and opened her refrigerator door to get some cool air. Although she almost instantly regretted her decision to write the Man With the Bright Red Socks a letter, she wasn't one for second guessing herself, so she decided to leave it be. Matilda was perched on Nadine's small, tan couch and Nadine joined her, waiting. She realized it could be hours before the man saw the letter, and even days before he decided to reply (if he decided to reply). Nadine opened a book, and read without understanding. Her thoughts were elsewhere.

George felt ridiculous. He felt completely and utterly alone without his typewriter and no human friends. I need a cat, he thought. He turned to open the apartment's lobby door and step outside when a piece of paper caught his eye. Certainly it's not for me, he thought, but it does look like it's attached to my mailbox. He stood still and considered reading the letter. But what if it wasn't for him? He decided to read it anyway. He blushed.

After reading a couple pages without really paying attention to them, Nadine decided it was high time she go and do something productive. She fed Matilda and gave her a small bowl of milk, something she liked to do on Saturdays. She thought of her friend Emma, who was probably doing something marvelous and exciting. She then thought about how boring her life was in this moment. As she sat in her living room with her cat, thinking of a man she did not know, writing a letter to that same man, and running back up to her apartment to think about how silly she felt for writing the letter to the man she did not know, opening her refrigerator door to get fresh air, reading a book without understanding — it all felt too predictable. With that, she grabbed her purse and headed outside.

Hearing rustling in the lobby, George ducked outside to catch his breath. His heart felt as though it had dropped into his hands and he felt silly for being so nervous about a letter from the woman in the hardware store. Surely it had to be the same woman with the floral skirt and hair just so. He memorized her handwriting, the curves of the letters, the way she addressed him as The Man With the Bright Red Socks. He relished the fact that she noticed small details and he felt himself melting into a puddle, a happy one no less.

Nadine walked outside and did not notice the missing letter, or the fact that George was standing just outside their apartment entrance. She was much too consumed by being someone who was unpredictable (something she was consumed by quite often). She thought about all the ways she could not be a bore. She thought of ways to be mysterious, unattainable. Someone who struck curiosity in others. These were all things she thought of quite often, almost as though she were rehearsing for a part in a play — herself, but different.

But what Nadine did not realize was that somewhere, The Man With the Bright Red Socks, who felt a connection to a (now broken) typewriter, was intrigued by her forwardness, her desire to be up front and transparent in any given situation. What she did not realize was that with just a few of her scribbled words on a piece of paper, The Man With the Bright Red Socks felt a lift in his spirits, the chance to make a friend other than a typewriter. How unexpected, he thought.