L is for Love
Timmy had made a grave mistake, although he never could have predicted the outcome of such an innocent proposition. He'd gone on vacation.
Now normally, this wouldn't have been a problem. Leave work for awhile, breath of fresh air, see the sights of a new city, get away from...him.
However, something rather strange had taken place, it seemed, in his absence.
The replacement. The girl, the doppelgänger, molded slowly more and more to resemble Timmy until at last it had become perfectly clear to everyone just what exactly had happened.
Clear to everyone, that is, except for Russell. The very person who had done it. Timmy had watched the man walk about with his female counterpart attached at the hip, an eerie sight to be sure, his employer ever oblivious to the underlying implications at hand.
Until at last Russell mistook him for the woman, laying hands upon him, telling him he wanted him. Both men rejected the notion quite clearly upon the revelation of his identity.
But reflection had begged the question in Timmy's gut...was the denial so much one of earnest disapproval, a case of mistaken identity...or shock at having revealed a secret desire?
Terribly foolish thought, he shouldn't think such things, horribly foolish.
But undeniable.
Timmy took these thoughts to his therapist, knowing the truth. A woman well-versed in the woes that were his life with, he begged her guidance: "What do I say to him? Please, I need help."
In turn she was asked a question, unexpected, uninvited: "How do you feel about Russell?"
His gut instinct was to say he despised the man! An obvious reply to a stupid question!
A bit more prompting found him mellowed. Ahh, she posed, but why devote so much of his life to someone he hated? And there it came...she asked the question that changed everything. "Do you love Russell?"
Well, damn it all.
He'd left the session shaken, tense, unable to process the words. He'd gone home. He hadn't slept properly.
Nothing made any sense, suddenly.
Late that evening, Timmy pulled a piece of paper from his desk at home. He wasn't sure what he was doing...an experiment, a thought process. He had to be sure.
His hand had barely moved upon the paper, dragging shaking lines as he wrote the words he dared not speak.
He tossed the pen to paper, frustrated yell in dimmed room, and willed his mouth to move.
He spoke very softly. "I...love..."
He stood, kicking his desk in frustration. "Damn it!" Then, directing words towards his boss, too far away to ever hear: "DAMN YOU! I'll never say it, do you hear me?! It's insane! This is insane!"
It seemed he had paced the room for several minutes, growing more and more frantic, heart racing ever faster until at last he roared: "Nnng, damn it all!"
In anger he snatched the pen atop his desk, in fury he scrawled fast words upon paper with hard hands, and flung the pen to the floor in an attempt to rid himself of the words trapped in his head. And he stood back, breath hard and heavy and confused.
When at last he took small steps back towards the desk, practically frightened of what he would find, he picked up the paper. He read the message silently, blinking the letters rapidly away...
'I love Russell Dunbar.'
No. He couldn't have written it. Writing it made it true, it made it-
"I love him."
What?! No, don't say it!
"I...love..." He couldn't bring himself to say the name. It felt utterly foolish in his mouth. "As...a friend, surely. A...companion? A trusted...no, not trusted, that's a step too far, as, uhm..."
Come on, Timmy, it's like a puzzle, put it all together. One step at a time. "Russell." That a boy. "I... Russell... L-lllll..."
Back to the paper.
He wrote it again. Slowly this time, deliberately, with tempered, even strokes...
'I love Russell.' And again. 'I love Russell.' Again. 'I love Russell.'
'I love you, Russell.'
WAIT. That was different. That felt very much a direct confession, as if he intended on telling someone something, what on earth was he doing?!
'I love you, Russell Dunbar.'
NO, DON'T DO IT AGAIN.
That's where the experiment ended. Timmy abandoned pen to desk, running heavy hands against his face. He couldn't let whatever was happening keep on happening.
It was all too much.
He picked up the paper, examining his wall of scribbles, the name written over and over for the world to see. He thought about tearing it apart, of burning the evidence. So whatever compelled Timmy Patel to cleanly fold this piece of paper into a fine square, to tuck it neatly away for safe keeping was as good as anybody's guess.
Russell had been late to work, as usual. Timmy was quite overworked, as usual, and willed his brain to concentrate on his job. But he was distracted, and not pleasantly so.
Timmy, foolishly, had attempted to discuss the incident with Russell. It wasn't every day that Russell had built a doppelgänger of a woman in his stead and had thereby mistakenly come onto him in the middle of the office; perhaps this justified a moment of reflection, aaaand no. Russell had reversed the blame somehow, had denied what was happening entirely.
No big surprise, there. Timmy really hadn't known what to do about any of it, anyway. What was he to do with this kind of information? 'Oh, you mean to say you WANTED to feel me up in the middle of the office? Well, yes, by all means, go right ahead.'
Insanity. In a million years, he'd never...he would...never...
Timmy pulled a piece of paper from a pocket. Why had he brought it here? Why? What good was he doing, dragging it around to work?
Perhaps his mind believed his heart would do its job, if he could only see the man.
He'd been scribbling the same words over and over since the night before, whenever his brain willed his hand to speak, to purge them from his system. He needed to do so now.
He unfolded the paper at lightning speed atop his desk. Paper filled, nearly flooded with the message, and he wrote quickly, heart beating, brow building to a sweat: 'I love you, Russell Dunbar'...
And his head fell against the desk with a light groan.
And Russell's door opened.
Timmy scrambled, breathing heavily, paper crumpling beneath his hand; it curled, finding its way into a ball as Russell found his way towards Timmy.
They were both out of sorts today; Russell's voice emerging rather shallow. "Got that thing."
"What thing was that?"
"Thing from the guy."
"Yes, that narrows it down."
"Guy that's been riding me for the past month, the one with the overbite who's married to the chick who's way too hot for him. You know the guy...works in records, now..."
"Oh, Jenkins."
"Jenkins! See, this is why I need you, I just call him..."
"The guy with the overbite, yes."
"Yeah, so...I'm gonna forward you the thing." Russell tapped against Timmy's desk, forcing a small smile.
"Yes, very well."
As Russell faded back into his office, Timmy breathed his great relief. And then took a deep breath of confusion. Nothing in this exchange should have filled him with a sense of comfort, a slight warmth. And yet there had been no snide remarks hurled towards him, he had been neither demeaned nor insulted.
Timmy assured himself that a lack of abuse should not be an admirable quality in anyone. He knew, of course, that despite the accuracy of the claim, he was covering for something deeper.
He liked the man, and he always had. And feelings aren't so much a valve to be stopped and started as one pleases; no. These feelings had etched something deeply in his brain, like river through rock. And the stream was growing wider.
Timmy held the crumpled paper in his hand, fist clenched taught. He could no longer will himself to look at the words, and so he crushed the paper to a ball. He placed it in the trash receptacle to his side, done with it. Never wanting to see it again.
Timmy stood from his desk, and in desperation, walked straight from the room. He needed to think. He couldn't do it here.
"Hey, Tim...?" Russell's door opened, right on cue. "Turns out I don't have the thing, Overbite sent it to you. Says he trusts /you/ over me, can you believe that? Like, you're the biggest screw-up in this place, why would Jerkins...?"
Russell finally shut up long enough to notice Timmy's absence.
"Ah, c'mon, gotta do everything around here..."
He made his way behind Timmy's desk, gaining access to his computer, seeking an email. He found it almost too quickly, forwarding the file to himself...well, that was boring. What else could he do for fun?
"Wonder where he keeps his porn..." A quick click around revealed nothing of interest. Most boring, most work-y computer ever. Russell's eyes sought anything of interest around the peripheral of Timmy's desk.
Same old crap. Pictures of family, cultural jib-jab. Kind of interesting, but he didn't really understand any of it...he fingered a small figure carefully, something Indian looking...that's the most he knew and the best he could piece together, and he'd probably mock Timmy later for it.
Perhaps such mockery came from a place of insecurity; be it far easier on an ego to appear crass and cruel than to admit to being lonely in one's foolishness.
There are certain types who would rather be hated than face rejection. It would seem Russell Dunbar was just such a type, even if he didn't know it.
But there are those who can see through such charades.
Russell forewent examining Timmy's desk further, standing with a grunt. Nothing of interest anyway; he just had to go and hire the world's most boring assistant to spy on.
And then something caught his eye. It was probably nothing, but unbeknownst to Timmy, Russell was not above rummaging through trash in search of secrets. He seldom found anything juicy, but maybe...
By the time Timmy had walked back into the office, Russell had undone the mess of paper; he stood now, reading his own name over and over, scrawled in familiar handwriting. His face panged in cryptic curiosity as Timmy stood stone cold several feet away...mortified...panicked, but trying not to let it show.
What now?
Timmy's voice dared to speak, barely above a whisper. "Sir..."
"Get a load of that, huh?" Russell turned the paper around for Timmy, as if it was news to both of them. And the men met eyes, conveying information neither could truly comprehend.
Timmy was the first to break eye contact, working up the will to speak.
Russell beat him to the punch. "Crazy," he said with a chuckle. "Some chick walking all the way over here with some uh, hand written confession? Looks like she chickened out though."
Their eyes met again. 'Is this what we're going with?' they consulted silently. They came to an agreement.
"Yes, most curious," said Timmy.
"Didn't see her?" asked Russell.
"No, funny thing," said Timmy. "I'll be sure and send the mystery woman your way should she make another appearance."
"Good deal, bet she's a real looker. And clearly obsessed with me, so... Oh, hey, guy emailed you that thing. Whipped it over to myself, we're good to go."
"Oh, excellent, I'll have a look."
"Great. Grabbing lunch in a few, if you, uh..."
"I might, I'll let you know."
"Okay."
And so, Russell retreated to his office, paper in hand.
And so, Timmy retreated to his desk, unsure if the feeling presently overtaking him was morbid relief, or a desire to be dead.
Russell sat at his desk now, behind a solid door, alone. With bated breath he sat, locked away from the world, staring at a mystery.
Though he saw them, clear as day, he was puzzled in the words upon the paper, scarcely making sense of them. They blurred against eyes that never truly let him see the truth, and yet for just a moment now his brain scrambled, reaching for a pen.
He read the words emblazoned there, the words that forced nerves afire...
'I love you, Russell Dunbar.'
It was all he really wanted. He knew this now, there was no more rejecting it, and in that moment something compelled him to believe, to accept the unacceptable...that he might not be the only one holding such desires.
And in fine ink, with steady hand, Russell Dunbar placed permanence to paper:
'I love you too, Timmy Patel.'
He studied the declarations carefully, for a moment believing in something. For just a moment, a fleeting heartbeat's worth of time, feeling peace and warmth and love.
Maybe this was real. Maybe this was really happening.
No.
Denial moved the hands of Russell Dunbar; a paper shredder took the evidence, devouring silent confessions that may never come again.
And Timmy Patel sat at his desk, wide-eyed, lost in trepidation, wondering what love felt like.
...Love felt like hearts through a paper shredder.