Free Blink by Rick R. Reed Page A

Facebook won’t let me. Privacy settings hide any other photos, as well as any “about” information beyond what I already knew, that the guy is male and in a relationship. His timeline is either hidden or blank, beyond a thank-you that appears mysteriously at the bottom of the page, thanking well-wishers for their birthday greetings. He confesses to being bad about Facebooking. “What can I say? I’m old. LOL.”
    Yes. We both are .
    But I can’t even find out this Carlos’s age. My finger hovers above the “add friend” box.
    I decide to send the guy a message. I sit back in my chair and sigh. What to say? I don’t want to come off sounding weird and stalkerish. But maybe I am those things! I mean, who does what I’m doing?
    I try to console myself that part of the reason Facebook exists is that it helps people connect with others they’ve lost track of over the years. And really, that’s all I’m doing. I know nothing may come of this, but I could still get a friend out of it. The thing I remember most about Carlos, besides how gorgeous he was, was the easy connection we had, how we could talk to one another.
    That’s a rare thing for me. I am a 100 percent dyed-in-the-wool introvert, which is what draws me to books and stories. I like them because I can immerse myself in other worlds while still hiding behind language and imagery. Texts and e-mail were big blessings for me, because they meant I would no longer have to use the telephone very much. I have always hated Mr. Alexander Graham Bell’s invention, which has always been, at best, anxiety inducing for me.
    But even with our very brief encounter on the ‘L’ platform and later at my apartment, Carlos and I could talk. There was something easy in his smile that made it possible for me to open up to him. I have rarely found that quality in other men, even the ones with whom I’ve made the mistake of cohabitating.
    But back to the task at hand. What to say? I know I could write something long and drawn out, reminding him of how we met and letting him know that I have never forgotten him throughout the passage of years.
    I could tell him about the connection I feel to him.
    All of that, I think, could be perceived as simply nuts.
    I place my fingers on the keyboard and type:
    Perhaps a weird question, but did you live (and teach) in Chicago in the early 1980s? If so, we may have met on the ‘L’ train heading out west toward the University of Illinois. If not, never mind .
    I sit back, look at the simple message, question once again if I’m doing the right thing, and click Send.
    I wonder if this simple act will change my life. Or if, more likely, it will make absolutely no difference at all.
    I turn to Ezra, who has awakened on the couch and stares at me, as if to ask “Isn’t it time for bed yet?”
    “Yes, Ezra, let’s go to bed.”
    As if the cat understands my words, and I often think he does, he hops from his sleeping place on the couch to strut ahead of me into the bedroom, where he will take up another sleeping place at the foot of my bed.
    I pull off my T-shirt and drop it on the pile of clothes on the recliner situated in a corner of my bedroom and join Ezra in bed. I decide I’m too tired for Dr. Sleep and will opt for plain old sleep tonight. I reach up to turn off the light and then pull the sheet and quilt up to my neck.
    The last thought I have is to wonder if I will dream of Carlos.
     
     
    T HE NEXT morning, before I fire up the Keurig to make my Pike Place blend of coffee, before I feed Ezra, before I check the weather outside my windows, hell, before I even pee, I hurry into my home office to check my computer to see if there’s been a reply from Carlos.
    I wait for my browser to come up and, of all times, the connection to the Internet is being painfully slow. Or maybe it’s just me. Patience has never been one of my virtues. Ezra is up too and winds himself around my legs in a figure eight beneath my chair.
    “Just a