Member-only story
On Being Virginia Woolf
Fiction
He stumbled upon Virginia Woolf at a party, back when he was in college.
He found one of her stories in a collection of essays in a book in a room at his friend’s house while he was supposed to be partying. His friends were all in the living room smoking organic-homegrown pot. My parents sent me to California to study economics, not to smoke marijuana, he told himself, self-righteously.
His self-righteousness, however, had its origin in his fear of rejection. On not daring to go after his platonic love. On not turning it into something real and tangible.
When he was growing up, he had watched enough boy-meets-girl movies to build an unrealistic expectation about the underdog boy who is noticed by the beautiful girl.
But this girl didn’t notice him any more than he was aware of the watery mist produced by the crashing waves against the shore on the beachfront house off the Southern California coast.
He was someone else’s afterthought, ambient noise.
The girl he liked was flirting with one of his other friends.
He knew when to admit defeat.
He moved on into a room with an ottoman, a desk and a chair. It had a library full of rows and full of books. His friends were in the common areas…
