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Like any teenage girl, I learned how to take care of my own needs but always hoped for fireworks with the right guy. I never orgasmed with Drew, the loser who punched my V card. His idea of sex was cock-centered. The ‘non-vagina’ part of the V between my legs was dutifully serviced for forty seconds immediately before he was ready to come. Now the combination of my fingers moving faster, memories of Dylan McAlister flooding my brain, the anticipation of seeing him in a few days, tips me over the edge and I climax in hard, abrupt spasms. Shivers travel down my spine and the backs of my arms.

I lie in the dark room, tired, content, almost happy. I’m going to see Dylan in less than forty-eight hours. I have a good feeling that this time things will be different.

The next morning, I shovel down eggs, drink coffee, and Google Town and Country and Ralph Lauren. Country club casual is classic fashion. I can totally do this look, just not on my paycheck.

I hit the ground running and visit my favorite thrift stores. Goodwill has a hundred gray dresses lined up on one rack that look like they belong in The Handmaid’s Tale. Salvation Army is having a run on shoulder pads and all things eighties.

I finally score at the Orphans of Foreign Wars when I stumble upon a vintage cotton dress for twenty bucks. It’s tea length, has a modest neckline, and a skirt that flares below the knee. I take it home, hand wash it, tumble it on low, and iron it. I zip it up, put on the diamond necklace Dylan gave me, check out my reflection in the mirror, and smile. “Hello, Mrs. Ralph Lauren.”

It takes me two hours to beautify and dress for our second date. I go back and forth on the earrings, finally settling on simple, petite white gold hoops. How should I do my nearly waist length hair? I curl it, fashion it into a loose updo with simple, pretty, rhinestone clips. Mom gave me one of Grandma’s vintage cardigans in a light blue that pairs perfectly with this outfit. I check the clock. Just enough time to meditate for ten minutes and follow that up with a quick prayer chaser before I blow out of my hovel in time to make the 4 pm train departing Union Station.

Dear God. Dylan McAlister’s a good man. A kind man. Please help me give my all for this job. Thanks for guidance. And this I ask for in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

I cross myself.

I make my way down the sagging stairs and notice my mailbox is stuffed with grocery store fliers poking out the slats. I barely bother checking the box anymore. Almost everything is done online. But I don’t want thieves thinking I’m gone for any length of time. I unlock the box, grab the stash, and walk toward the recycling bin, when I see an envelope addressed to me in a typed font with no return address. I slide it in my purse and make tracks for the station.

The hour-long train ride slides by. Only ten minutes remain before we pull into St. Charles. Best not to get too excited. I’m here on business. Traveling for him, not me or my fantasies. I pull a compact from my purse, check my reflection, and swipe on a layer of lipstick. When I return it to my purse I see the letter and open it.

Dear Ms. Berlinger,

May I call you Evelyn, or do you prefer Evie?

It’s up to you. I’m good with either. You can let me know which you prefer if our paths ever cross in real life.

First, let me apologize for this message that most likely feels like it finds its way to you out of the blue. You’re probably wondering, ‘Who is this strange person contacting me via old fashioned paper correspondence?’

As much as I’d love to tell you my full name. As much as I imagine it rolling around in your brain, tripping off your full lips, I’ve been advised to sit on that for a while. I can always share it with you later.

I just wanted to let you know that catching a glimpse of you on social media always brings a smile to my face.

Thanks for being a spot of sunshine!

That’s all, really.

Best,

A Fan

***

8

St. Charles

ST. CHARLES

The train screeches as it blasts toward St. Charles. My stomach churns like I just ate something dicey from one of those sidewalk food carts. I text Amelia.

Evie: Have you ever gotten a weird letter from “a fan?”

Amelia: Yes. Dick pics. Did someone send you dick pics?

Evie: No.

Amelia: What?

Evie: Just a letter.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com