Feeling akin to a gold miner in the Gold Rush, looking for that
nugget among all the sand and pebbles, that nugget when found
would make him a rich man. In the right hands, hands familiar
with molding one into something else, the nugget dug from the
ground becomes more beautiful and then even more so when worn
around the neck of his lady.
His eyes scan the screen (data mining, he jokes to himself). So
many sites like so many rivers. So many ads like so much mud,
sand and pebbles to look past. Looking for a glimmer of something
that does not fit a flash of something more beautiful. It is
there to be found his treasure will come to him if he looks in
the right spot, at the right time. Is it in the next page like
the next shovel full of dirt?
Too many ads…like bad songs, makes him wonder that people
actually took the time to write them. They are not looking for
his treasure…she would not be found wearing the collar of
gold that he saves for her. What if she thinks they are all like
him? What if she grows tired of reading the bad songs and gives
up listening to the music before his tune reaches her ears?
Can’t worry about that, he will find her…it is his
destiny to find his treasure.
He takes a break. He rests. Perhaps only hours, perhaps days go
by.
Sometimes when he is resting, he hears her calling to him. She
beckons him to keep looking for her. He closes his eyes, but her
face fills his dreams. Her eyes longing to be looking up at him.
The wind through the open window touches his cheek like her
breath upon his flesh. Resting is less restful than looking. He
sees that look in her eyes, in his dream, that look of fear that
he might give up before he finds (rescues) her. She knows how
long he has been looking and knows a reasonable man would be
frustrated, would have given up. But she also knows him and that
he will not. She is sad that he has to struggle, but it is she
after all that he hopes to find.
He begins looking again.
How could he live with himself, with her disappointment, knowing
he gave up trying to find her? She belongs by his side. Unable to
imagine not feeling her touch, he keeps looking. She belongs at
his feet. She can not bear the thought of not being under his
control or of not being protected by his power. He knows he needs
her tenderness to fortify his strength. She needs his power so
that she may feel in control of herself.
A powerful force pulls him to look. To look at a certain page. Is
it luck, fate or her desire that draws him in this direction?
Rolling up his shirtsleeves, loading a shovel full of dirt into
his pan, he settles down to sift through the pebbles. He knows
she is here, he feels her presence…it is up to him to find
her. He has been fooled before, seeing a glimmer only to discover
pyrite, fool’s gold. He sees her.
Like a surgeon, carefully opening her letter he reads her
thoughts. How should he respond? No doubt she will receive the
attention of many would-be snake-oil salesmen. Will she take the
time to sort through them all to find his letter? What if she
tires of reading the lies and deletes his letter, unopened? Maybe
he should wait to respond, until a day where his will be one of
only a few letters she gets? Surely she’d read his letter,
then. What if he waits and she never comes back, his letter will
remain there waiting for her return.
He seals his fate when he sends the letter. She opens her mailbox
to find ads for Viagra; ads to gamble on-line and someone who
wants her to kneel while she reads his letter. “Fat
Chance,” she whispers under her breath. Then she sees a
letter that ‘feels’ different. She seals her fate
when she begins to read his thoughts. she smiles as she
reads. He has found her.
He waits while she forms her response. Not too bold…not too
relaxed. He waits for her, allowing her time to express herself,
her feelings, her desires. He reads her reply, “Hello
Sir,” He hears her voice in the written words and knows he
has found her. He neglects others to respond to her as she
ignores her friends to read and reply to his letters. Each
checking for a new letter; each saddened when one is not waiting
so they can begin each day with the other.
He sends a picture (gray hairs and no hairs) and waits. She sends
one of herself and tells him he is handsome. He breathes a sigh
of relief, before looking at her. Now he knows he is in trouble,
she has sent a picture of an angel. A few more letters and then
he sends his number. She sends hers and asks to hear his voice.
He calls and hears the softness of an angel’s voice. Days
turn into weeks and they into months as they learn, laugh and
make plans.
He walks the distance between the plane and the terminal and sees
her waiting patiently. “Have you been waiting long?”
he asks. “All my life.” she responds. They smile at
the other and he wonders if he should kiss her. She wonders if he
will. He drops his hand and takes hers in his and side-by-side
they walk away, into what was meant to be.