Figment of my Imagination

It all began by my receiving an e-mail from a college friend—someone with whom I hoped vainly for something more. Whenever I’d discover an e-mail from her, Miranda, my heart would race and my soul would smile.

All was right with the world, at least for a while.

This went on for several weeks—each e-mail attaching a little more of my being. The uncanny part was, she remembered things I had told her years ago—remembered like yesterday.

Also, she seemed to be a mirror image of myself; all of this together made me vaguely uneasy. I made the joke that she was too good to be true—that she couldn’t be real. She, of course, echoed this feeling.

What was happening? As cynical as I was, she melted the tough, built-up exterior—she knew me alright, down to the finest detail. The fact that nothing could ever come to fruition, had no effect, didn’t deter me at all. What was I thinking? Not very much, obviously.

The e-mails became like clockwork—I’d e-mail her before I suddenly fell into a deep slumber from exhaustion. I would wake to find an e-mail from her—what a great way to greet the day!

The weeks turned into months. I seemed to know every element of her life, as she did mine—it was so much better than I ever hoped for. I’d never had that connection with anyone else.

One day, I encountered the dreaded blue-screen. Nothing would work— no internet, no e-mail…nothing. A cold fear gripped me, starting from my stomach and travelling upwards. My head swam, making me completely dizzy. How could this happen? Would she think I’d met some untimely demise?

I couldn’t let this situation stand. Taking the lap-top in hand, I drove erratically to a nearby electronics store. I waited impatiently in a seemingly interminable line. Tapping my foot impatiently, I heard every complaint imaginable—from, “I can’t burn CD’s”, to the dreaded virus concerns, which is what I believed my laptop suffered from. Eventually, after an eternity, I reached the head of the line—finally, I’d rectify the problem.

After running a brief diagnostic program, the glasses-clad clerk, looked up and said, “We’ll have to check the unit in….”, he looked over his shoulder and continued, “we’re kinda stacked up...we’ll give you a call when it’s ready”.

I sighed heavily, but I really had little choice. I gave him my number and reiterated the importance of getting my lap-top back quickly. “I need it for work,” I lied convincingly. He didn’t even look up as he said, “Of course, dude. We’re working as fast as we can.”

So, I left empty-handed after all. I drove anxiously and erratically home, and went upstairs—absent mindedly drumming my fingers. I had no idea what to do without my connection to Miranda. There was nothing else I wanted. I just flopped into bed and stared at the ceiling, counting tiles in a vain attempt at distraction. Eventually, I fell into a fitful sleep. No, this was not good at all.

After several unpleasant days, I finally received a call from the store, they had my lap-top ready at long last.

Driving was frantic; every stop-light along the way seemed to last for years—every car seemed to be an obstacle. If only I could magically levitate past these roving roadblocks.

At long last, I was standing in front of the disinterested clerk.

“We finally reconstructed the hard-drive and removed the virus—a nasty one. Oh, and what do you want to do with the other e-mail address?”

“What other address?”

“The [email protected] one.”

Oh, no! That explained so much. In my psychotic obsession, I’d totally created Miranda from my old college memories. I’d email her, fall into a deep slumber, and my insane alter-ego would respond in the middle of the night.

I saw spots and everything went dark.