Girlfriend Electric Part 3

I’ve been seeing Margot, a therapist, who’s been helping me work through the angst that's been troubling me but strangely inspires much of my writing.

Harry, my publisher and mentor, is none too eager for me to be delivered from my fine madness, mainly because it’s making us both a ton of money.

But he doesn’t have to live with the midnight loneliness and the frustration of never getting past the first few dates to actually have a relationship with a real woman in my life.

“It’s all good, James,” he reassures me, “besides you’re much too young to handle a successful writing career and maintain a decent romantic relationship. It’s typical of the artistic temperament.”

Easy for him to say because he seriously thinks I’m dotty—always going on about a ghostly schoolgirl who haunts me.

He figures she’s an avatar—a facsimile of my repressed desires.

I wonder what he’d say if he could see her now standing opposite me in her school uniform—gray skirt, white blouse, gray stockings.

Would he still be suave and debonair with his wavy white hair, blue eyes and Savile Row suits, or would he tremble with terror at her nightly apparition?

I fancy this is more than the sublimated culmination of my urges.

“Can you sit down?” I ask her

She complies.

We sit there staring at each other, but it’s not uncomfortable—I feel safe with her.

She can’t talk to me, so I talk to her—only, instead of the usual patter, I start telling her about myself—about my feelings.

It’s weird, but it seems right for us to be there together—she draws strength from me and I from her.

I lose all sense of time—maybe I’m enthralled, but we sit there until dawn—and then she slowly fades.

Something inside me breaks and I finally feel free.

I’m not sure what happened that night.

The encounter with the schoolgirl changed me.

I still sense her aura around me, especially in the house—sometimes when I enter a room the lights turn on, or a radio begins playing—it’s weird.

All the phenomena seem connected to electricity, as if that’s the medium through which we communicate.

I know the girl’s name—it’s Mariska—I don’t know how I know, but I’m positive that’s her name.

Ever since I’ve met her, my angst has disappeared. I can actually talk to women about my feelings—I mean, I can be vulnerable and honestly open up—I could never do that before.

I don’t know why Mariska can’t talk—maybe she’s an empathetic. All I know is since I opened up to her, I’ve been able to start writing again—and not just potboilers, but sensitive novels with nuance and depth.

Harry’s happy—says my writing’s been kicked up a notch—a more literary style.

But f I’m haunted, it’s an intelligent haunting at least—I now no longer need to see Margot, my therapist—although I do miss her legs.

I used to think paranormal experiences were terrifying encounters—evil energy malingering, or negative emotions persisting—now, I realize it can sometimes be as therapeutic as dreams.

It was Stephen Vincent Benet who said, dreaming men are haunted men. I think he’s right.

I know it’s that way with me.

The girl of my dreams sings to me, electrified by raindrops and wind.

She’s my Muse and sings to me in toneless notes, in wordless lyrics of mysterious force.

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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