This post[Each week I send out stories in my ward announcements, and since I haven’t posted any of my fiction on here in a long, long time, here’s the story that’s going out tonight. It’s a rough draft (I wrote it yesterday at interviews) and not very polished. Consider it reality lit. Except it’s not reality — in fact, for the literalists among you, be warned that this is a satire. I hope that’s all the disclaimer I’ll need. ;)]
Francis and the Walk-By Flirting
“Hey, France,” Melody said as she passed Francis on the walkway between the McKay Building and the SWKT.
It unfortunately happened that she said this just as he was in the middle of swallowing, however, so all he managed to get out was a garbled “Hello,” with his voice soaring to squeaky heights on the second syllable. Sometimes it was hard to believe he wasn’t still thirteen.
But right now he was teetering back and forth between stopping to talk — was she hesitating too, or was that just the way she walked? — and continuing his walk to the library. Maybe she wanted to talk. Maybe she was just waiting for him to show the first sign, the gravitational pull that marked the beginning of conversations. But then again maybe she was in a hurry, off to take a test or perform some Florentine act of service. It would be wrong of him to delay her — almost like kicking against the pricks.
And yet there did seem to be the slightest tilt of her head as she walked onward. She was looking back, Francis thought, trying to see if he’d stopped. She wanted to talk after all. If he stopped now, she’d stop, too, and then — o, what rapture!
Momentum and Newton’s infernal laws of motion exploded his thought bubble. In spite of his legs filling up with cement, in spite of the whole center of his focus rotating behind him and walking off in the other direction, his body kept walking. Stop it, he told himself. The library can wait. This is more important. And yet the autopilot didn’t listen.
It was too late now. Whatever thin, invisible thread had tethered them together in that brief moment of contact had snapped. There was no turning back now. Not unless he could come up with an excuse… If he had a valid reason to call back to her, it wasn’t entirely beyond hope. But he had nothing. They’d been in the same class last semester, had sat next to each other, but this was a new term and he never saw her. Except for today. So he couldn’t try the traditional small talk about class and the woes of homework and grades. They weren’t in the same ward, so he couldn’t casually mention how much he’d enjoyed that week’s Sunday School lesson. Nor did they work together, so he couldn’t ask when the pay period ended or whether she thought she’d get a raise. Not that he particularly wanted to talk about any of that, but it would have been something, and to a man who is dragging himself along the gritty sand of the Sahara, Francis thought to himself, even just a few drops of water taste like heaven.
And yet he couldn’t get himself to say anything. None of it would be an excusable reason — she’d see through it in an instant. But would that be so bad? A little voice inside him, one he sensed would be on his shoulder if it had a body, tsk tsked his lack of courage. It’s not a lack of courage, he told the voice, watching Melody keep walking. It was a conscious decision. He didn’t want to talk with her anyway. Right.
He turned and continued his walk to the library. This was a good omen, of course. She’d said hello, and she’d even used his nickname. Hadn’t she been dating someone, though? Maybe they’d broken up. In fact, there had been a flirting lilt to her tone, come to think of it, with the emphasis on the “Hey.” It was one of those utterances loaded with meaning, just bursting from inside. Hey, France. He said it over and over to himself, trying to remember just the way she’d said it. Hey, France.
Her angelic voice was like nectar from the gods, streaming down from Mt. Olympus in resplendent glory and grandeur. Could there be any sweeter sound? If only he’d had some kind of recorder on him — he was sure he could listen to it hundreds or even thousands of times. But he wouldn’t have been able to pull it out in time, so that was pointless. Maybe if he could get her to call him, then he wouldn’t pick up, and she’d leave a message. And he’d leave it on his phone forever. But what pretext would she ever have for calling him?
Then again, maybe her “Hey” had really meant, “I want you to call me and ask me out.” That was entirely possible, he thought — a kind of “Hey, I’m here, waiting for you.” What if, at this very moment, she had her phone in hand, just waiting for Francis to call?
But Francis didn’t have her number. He could get it from Route Y, of course, but she would be operating on the assumption that he didn’t have her number, and therefore she wouldn’t be waiting for him to call. Unless she was irrational. That was also possible — girls and their dreams of Prince Charming galloping in on a glistening white steed, sweeping them up off their feet and carrying them away to their castle on a remote mountaintop nestled in a bounteous valley (he assumed they stopped by the temple on their way to legalize and eternalize the whole thing, but that part never quite seemed to make it into the story). Silly fairy tales.
And yet Melody was like a princess. She had a noble bearing, that aristocratic neck always held aloft. And her locks! Raven-black tresses cascaded down her back like Medusa’s snakes — wait, he thought, remembering who Medusa was, not like the snakes. Like…well, like something good. Francis could easily imagine Melody locked up in some stony tower, letting her long hair fall out of the window as she wistfully brushed it, waiting for Francis to come and rescue her. It also wasn’t hard to picture her wrapped in a silent sleep of enchantment, waiting for true love’s kiss to waken her. Fairy tale maidens sure did seem to do a lot of waiting, he thought to himself.
But it was worth it. Or at least it was the other way round, from the prince’s perspective. Not that Francis was a prince — heck, he wasn’t even a landowner — but still, Melody would be worth any wait. Jacob’s fourteen years? Child’s play. Francis would wait for eternity. No, he’d wait for two eternities if he had to.
He thought back to the look she’d given him as they passed each other. Was that a twinkle he’d seen in her eyes, or was it just a stray ray of light reflecting down from the overcast sky? Come to think of it, she had been practically beaming at him when she smiled. Love. That was it. The warmth of love was emanating from her countenance, glowing and shining. She loved him. She cared for him. It was unmistakable, the way it came through — and with her “Hey, France,” well, that was solid gold.
That wasn’t all, either, Francis realized as he replayed the memory over again. She’d brushed her hair back. With her left hand. If that wasn’t a statement of singleness, Francis didn’t know what was. She wanted him to know that she was unattached — that she really was waiting for him to ask her out. Or even to propose. After all, why else would she be interested? It was a sure sign, he thought.
But how would he propose? He realized he didn’t know all that much about Melody — not enough to hand-tailor a betrothal just yet. But it wouldn’t take that long to get to know her, at least well enough to find a good way to pop the question. Besides, her roommates could help. And her sisters. If she had sisters. He probably would wait at least a couple of weeks, so they could go on at least five or six dates together, since you really didn’t want to rush into this sort of thing (fools and angels treading around and all). That would also give them time to make the invitations — he’d have to get started on that right away (which meant he’d need to find out her parents’ names pronto) — and reserve the temple and find some place for a reception. So much to do!
And it wouldn’t be long before the children would start coming into their family. Nine months for the first, then maybe a month break, and then another nine months, and so on. They’d have twelve, Francis decided, and they’d name them after the sons of Jacob. Their very own house of Israel. (If they had girls, well, he’d figure something out. Josephine would do in a pinch, as would Danielle, and Natalie wasn’t all that far off from Naphtali if you mumbled a little when you said it.)
As he walked across the JFSB quad to the library, Francis hummed “Someone Like You.” Melody. With a name like that, their home would be brimful with music, violins and cellos in one room, a baby grand in another, tambourines and kazoos and harmonicas in the nursery for the babies. They could start a band — he’d learn the mandolin or the banjo — and tour the West. Melody and the Munchkins. It was perfect.
But someday the children would grow up. His eyes misted over as he thought of empty beds and outgrown clothes. From complete trust they would veer into the omniscience of the teenage years, and just when he thought he would lose them forever, they’d uncocoon into adulthood and see the truth: that they were, in fact, becoming him. And Melody. And so the cycle of life would go on, giving them grandchildren, maybe even great-grandchildren, depending on how long they held on. He wondered if there was a history of heart trouble in Melody’s family.
Or worse. Maybe she’d come down with something just a few months into their marriage. Something so severe, so ravaging that it left her hospitalized for the rest of her life. The thought was scarcely bearable, but Francis vowed that he would remain loyal. He had to. No matter what happened, he would be true — after all, families were forever. He looked down at his CTR ring. Oh, wait, he’d taken it off a few weeks before, after it had turned green. But even in its absence, Francis thought back to Brother Joseph’s object lesson. One eternal round. Someday they’d be together again, no matter what happened in this life. And not just him and Melody — their posterity would gather round them, glory upon glory, joy upon joy, forever and ever.
“Hi, Francis,” came an interruption, pulling Francis out of his daydreams and back into reality. “How’s it going?”
It was Valentine, the golden-haired, blue-eyed beauty in his ward he’d been planning on asking out for months. His future with Melody suddenly didn’t seem quite so sure…
The end.
