To say Lucien was lonely living with his mother was not true, and though his devotion to Daphne was almost of a religious nature, it demanded no fidelity.
Inexplicably he started an account on Facebook in late spring, despite having no friends or desire to cultivate friends from lists of strangers suggested in a sidebar. He instead subscribed to special interests groups that appeared regularly in his feed.
A curious friend request turned up in his inbox one day from an attractive young woman of no acquaintance. Little thought was given to why this person should wish to befriend him, but he confirmed her request and looked over her home page.
She had joined Facebook the previous week, with nothing yet posted on her timeline. Scant personal information was available, although six men, approximately Lucien’s age, were listed as friends. He suspected this was the avatar of an impersonator. It was also possible that the solicitation was the work of a self-executing algorithm targeting lecherous men. Regardless, the woman’s name disappeared from Lucien’s friends list days later. (Perhaps removed by Facebook through another algorithm.)
A second young female appeared in his online mailbox the following week, and it was much the same setup with the same result. A third friendship request was confirmed, and a fourth soon replaced it. The group of male friends listed on each profile page were never the same, although these gentlemen, wishing to establish communication in their shared echo chamber, occasionally offered provocative salutations. To compare their collective, un-expecting faces to insects trapped in a black widow spider’s web was only fair.
The mischief behind each virtual femme fatale began with the name of the woman, which began innocuously: Cassie, Vanessa, etcetera. These names soon degenerated into monikers of strippers: Candy, Tiffany, etcetera. The identifying photograph followed form, becoming more risqué until, in a twist, they were grotesque. This culminated with one lass named B. J. who, with coated tongue extended, offered up herself in an unbuttoned teddy with beer vomit in her hair. This seemed to be the end of the line, at least where Facebook’s guidelines allowed.
Perhaps, predictably, the final friend request was not from a comely, compromised young woman but from someone who was undisputedly homely. Lucien had said yes to all of them, although this last guise, going under the name Louise, did not vanish like the others. Her glum squatty face stared back from his friends list like an electronic bug stuck to a kitchen cabinet door to monitor his every move. This person (whoever she or he was) was the author to all the identities, or so Lucien chose to believe: This spy was obsessed with him, particularly.
It had been a mild spring, and unseasonably cool and dry for Memphis, which transitioned into a summer of similar disposition. Fourth of July arrived, and while grilling steaks on the patio for his mother and himself, Lucien heard what he first thought were snapping twigs in a neighbor’s backyard. Over the hedge, amid a chorus of gum smacking, Lolita sunbathed in a chaise longue. Her complexion was exquisitely pale, and she appeared to be no close relation to the homeowners, though maybe a niece or someone come to live with the family.
Lucien had no cause to connect this girl in the teal bikini to his Internet stalker, and the last time he saw her was the first time he spoke to her. The teenager appeared at the edge of the carport one afternoon while he prepped the lawn mower. He squinted in the direction of approaching clog shoes, yet saw nothing of her face for glare. His gaze dropped, of necessity, and settled less necessarily on a clingy blend skirt. An Elle magazine was in one hand, and a bottle of sunblock was in the other.
Her introduction was a declaration. “Your bedroom faces our yard.”
Lucien wiped his hands on a fustian rag.
She interrupted the grave pause with, “You like Daphne La Trisse. I’ve seen her posters hanging in your room.”
“It’s a small collection,” he confessed guardedly.
“I would love to see your pictures some time,” she said.
The age difference grew by the second, although her transparent forwardness was closer to his age than to hers. He reflected on the intonation of the casual request, but did not identify it confidently as flirtation. The older man never saw his passing glances over the hedge as expressing anything other than a private thought. It had been reasonable to assume that his window screen, two sheets of glaring plate glass, and her sunglasses concealed his covert.
The ingénue expected no reply. She waved herself off with a “see ya,” and without offering her name or inquiring after his. It was with this abrupt parting that Lucien reflected on his measly collection of Daphne memorabilia. The actress never had a poster to her name, and what low resolution images he taped to his walls were taken from the Internet and created on laser-printed, letter-sized paper.
The sun worshipper never reappeared in the yard, and it took several days to realize that she would not don the teal bikini again. There was perhaps a suitcase on the driveway at some point, and a car trunk closing in the middle of the night to cover the business of her leaving.
A week or two after their fleeting conversation, Lucien visited his neglected Facebook page. He had forgotten about subscribing to a fan page for Daphne La Trisse months earlier; Louise would have seen this. The teenage neighbor was no toad like Louise, but somewhere between a Cassie and a Candy. His encounter with her was, in retrospect, unsettling in view of his Facebook activity.
He “un-friended” Louise.
Copyright © 2008-2022 Michael Teague. All rights reserved.