By the time Lucas arrived home after work he had gone over the days accident no, than seventeen times with every retelling seeming to worsen the situation. He tossed his bag aside slipped off his shoes and powered on his laptop as if preparing to conduct surgery on his self-respect.
And, of course, the Keyboard Warriors were already online.
These were his companions—a blend of gamers, coders and self-styled "relationship experts" who had never truly experienced a relationship.. They cared for Lucas and he cared for them creating what seemed like an online support circle filled with all the awkwardness of a basement gathering, under poor lighting.
KeyboardWarrior77: Yo.
PixelFang: Lucas! You finally home?
DrMayo: So have you messed something up more?
LucasR: …maybe?
PixelFang: Oh lord.
Lucas exhaled deeply. Wrote deliberately as if admitting to a wrongdoing.
LucasR: I gave a gift to a colleague but it didn't turn out well.
DrMayo: Explain what you mean by "didn't go well."
LucasR: She became embarrassed. My employer intervened. Everyone was watching. Coffee nearly sprayed from her nostrils.
The conversation fell silent.
After that it blew up.
KeyboardWarrior77: WHAT DID YOU HAND TO HER?
PixelFang: DETAILS. NOW.
DrMayo: SHOW US THE WEAPONIZED ITEM.
Lucas stood still.
He… was unable to recall its name.
He gazed up at the ceiling attempting to summon the name out of nowhere. All that lingered was a recollection of vivid packaging and a cashier who chuckled while ringing it up.
LucasR: I can't recall the name. I'm able to describe it.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
The storyteller (yes that's me still clutching on desperately) sensed the onset of a headache.
KeyboardWarrior77: Do it.
PixelFang: We're ready.
DrMayo: Get ready.
Lucas wrote:
LucasR: It's of… a portable device? Somewhat formed like a… um… with a section, on the upper side?. It buzz—
PixelFang: STOP.
DrMayo: NO MORE.
KeyboardWarrior77: Lucas. My dude. My sweet summer child. My fragile little quark of innocence.
Lucas fluttered his eyes.
LucasR: What?
PixelFang: That was your gift, to her.
LucasR: Provided her with… what?
DrMayo: Oh wow he has no idea.
KeyboardWarrior77: He truly has no idea.
PixelFang: Lucas… my friend… you gave her something that practically shouts "I LIKE YOU", in neon.
DrMayo: Louder than that.
KeyboardWarrior77: raucous, than the next-door person playing trombone at 2 a.m.
Lucas reviewed their messages again.
Once.
Then again.
Then again at a snail's pace.
It seemed as though his spirit had departed from his body. He lost consciousness. Returned. Departed more.
He gazed at the screen with the expression of someone witnessing his life collapse moment by moment.
LucasR: …oh.
You recognize that look people have when they suddenly understand they've unintentionally made a social blunder? That was exactly Lucas, at that moment.
Each of his friends wrote "bro" simultaneously. A virtual gesture.
Lucas closed his laptop.
Sat there.
Stared into the void.
The emptiness gazed in return.
To be honest? He likely found the silence uncomfortable.
The Search, for Salvation (Warning: It Ends Poorly)
Lucas wandered around his living room, like a Roomba.
"I have to repair this " he whispered under his breath. "I require a present. Something ordinary. Something secure. Something that does NOT buzz—"
He stopped briefly.
"No. Nope. Not going there."
He looked at the clock. Nearly midnight.
Everything was closed.
Except… gas stations.
The storyteller moaned. Audibly. Toward the emptiness.
Lucas pulled on a hoodie snatched his wallet and walked outside looking like someone on a mission—with not a plan, in mind.
The gas stations illumination gave off the atmosphere of a grim crime doc. Nonetheless he searched through the aisles.
Snacks. Drinks. Random household items.
And then—
Pickles.
Cucumbers.
Ranch dressing.
His eyes brightened.
"A salad " he murmured. "I'll prepare her a salad. That's considerate. That's typical. People enjoy salads."
The storyteller required a pause to recline.
Lucas purchased the goods packed them with pride and strolled home feeling as though he had just ended world hunger.
He arrived home placed the groceries on the countertop… and promptly forgot to prepare the salad.
Just went straight to bed.
Naturally he did.
The morning Lucas arrived at work carrying the bag with the produce tumbling inside as if it were scheming an escape.
He had scarcely taken two strides inside when:
"Morning Lucas," Lily greeted with a smile.
Lucas stood still.
Lily Carter. Smiling at him. Saying good morning. Existing.
He faced her.
She looked at the bag. "What do you have there?"
He glanced at the bag.
Then back at her.
Oh no.
He brought out… a pickle.
(Why.)
Then the cucumber.
(Why, Lucas.)
Then the ranch.
(You know what? It no longer shocks me.)
And somehow—just to be clear this was NOT intentional—he of… stroked the pickle with his thumb. Slowly.
Then as he picked up the ranch he moistened his lips since they felt dry.
Wrong moment. Wrong context. Wrong universe.
Lily looked at the objects. Then at Lucas. Then, at his lips.
Her cheeks flushed with color.
"Wh-why do you need that…?" she inquired, her tone trembling slightly.
Lucas grinned like a retriever that had just mastered an exciting new trick.
"It's confidential " he said cheerfully. " For you."
Inside Lilys mind, a circuit shorted.
She mumbled something that resembled "oh okay cool great" and hurried away one hand shielding her face.
Naturally I, the storyteller was bent, over laughing uncontrollably.
Lucas remained in place confident but unaware.
Suddenly a shadow appeared above him.
Sabrina Cole.
A legend. A threat. A lady, with eyeliner enough to slice through glass.
She gazed at the pickle held by Lucas. Then at the cucumber from the bag. Then once again, at him.
Then she gave his arm a slap—not forceful but sufficient to express the "WHAT ARE YOU DOING" slap typically reserved for siblings and oblivious friends.
"Man!" she reprimanded. "This is a workplace!"
Lucas, unaware of the charges, against him responded sharply:
Precisely! So am I not allowed to treat someone I owe lunch to?!
Sabrinas eyes fluttered.
Twice.
Her face transformed entirely.
"Oh my goodness " she murmured. "Oh my GOODNESS."
She retreated a step.
Then she laughed uncontrollably that she had to support herself against a cubicle wall.
"I was going to say—never mind—just forget it—oh my gosh you're such a fool—alright—alright—wow—sorry—wow—"
She dabbed her eyes still laughing softly.
"Best of luck, pal " she remarked, tapping his shoulder gently before turning continuing to laugh as if she had just discovered the secret to existence.
Lucas remained standing.
Confused.
Still holding the pickle.
"…What was that?" he whispered.
Suddenly he realized it.
The understanding struck his mind forcefully as a hurled brick.
His face drained of color.
Then bright red.
Then pale again.
Then red.
The storyteller was breaking down.
Absolutely cracking up.
I have never needed to supervise an adult man closely before, in my life.
Then an unforeseen event occurred.
The writer communicated.
Not in Lucas's imagination.
Not metaphorically.
No.
The writer engaged with the story as if peering across a cubicle partition.
"Hey " the writer asked. "Narrator?"
"…Yeah?"
"I sympathize with you."
The storyteller gazed directly at the lens.
"Thank you " I murmured. "At last."
Then Lucas dropped the pickle, and we were back to the chaos.