The Beauty of Facebook

I don't know what made me do it.

Okay, maybe I do.

I was writing a story.

About the past.

A past in which he featured, albeit unknowingly, unconsciously.

And prone as I am to distractions whenever writing something tricky, I decided to log on to Facebook, just for a moment, to see whether a friend had replied to my message.

She hadn't, but that didn't even matter. For I found the cursor moving straight to the search box at the top of the screen and typing out a name. HIS name. An attractive foreign name, which I haven't even bothered to change in the story. Somehow, no other name can fit. It has to be his real one or no story at all.

He was easy enough to find. I knew he would be. We have two mutual friends, people I never talk to but don't take off from my list either.

And by some great stroke of luck (or fate?) his profile pictures album was accessible by me. His current picture made me catch my breath. There he was, partially silhouetted against the Toronto skyline, gazing into the distance. An artistic photo, captivating.

There were forty more pictures, a few of which are clever cartoons, and one is of a sports star. But most are of him (thank god):

Him reading a book (Moonraker by Ian Fleming) with a cup of beverage sitting beside him, his left hand raised to his forehead, eyebrows knit in concentration. It's hard to tell whether it's a natural or deliberate pose. Him in a checked shirt, shorts, and aviators, striding down the street, unsmiling, in a very model-esque manner. Him sitting very business-like on an office chair, left hand at the forehead again. Him with a glass of beer in hand, griining at the camera. Him showing off a bottle of beer, which is captioned as being his favorite brand in the world; him pouring out the beer into a glass. Him in a suit, him in a jacket, him with a small white dog and a book in his hand again. This time it is a cloth-bound volume with no name on it, but according to the caption it is his favorite novel, Nineteen Eighty Four by George Orwell. Him playing pool. his face set in concentration as he aims with the cue; him in fancy dress, dressed up like an old man, him in a tux, raising a glass full of something dark (wine?) to the camera, him doing up his tie and posing at the same time, him simply looking away at an angle; him with dark shades on, him with a cigarette between his lips and a dangerous look in his eyes, him posing in front of a building for what is obviously a professional photograph since it has a watermark on it; him lying on his bed, reclining on a sofa, leaning against a wall, perched atop a tree, lying with the white dog beside him again, him in his life, with not the vaguest inkling that a silly girl halfway across the world is scrolling through his photos, wide-eyed, heart-hammering, and a smile playing at her lips as she remembers what it was like -living across the hall from him.

I'd crushed on him the minute I'd set eyes on him, before he'd even spoken a word. I found out his name from other people's conversations, because I was just too shy to approach him on my own. We only ever met in the elevator sometimes, exchanged courteous smiles and nothing else. And then there was the time when he dropped by to borrow the vacuum cleaner and I'd answered the door and totally lost my senses for a minute before realising that I was looking stupid just standing there rather than fetching the machine for him. He has the most beautiful face I've ever set eyes on - not ruggedly handsome but gorgeous, and soft, dark hair, and eyes that I remember as being an elusive mix of intense and warm and wondrous and intelligent. And his mouth was the kind of mouth that makes you dream of kisses.

I know for a fact that he didn't even know my name, never mind realize that I was absolutely head-over-heels gaga over him. But somehow that doesn't matter, he remains my most memorable crush ever, perhaps because that's just what it was - a sweet, short-lived crush that never got a chance to explode into anything more serious or hurtful like love or obsession. It was pleasant and heart-warming and will always remain with me as the best feeling I've ever had for anyone. And when I REALLY think of him, I always have Facebook to check him out and happily reminisce about the four months worth of elevator rendez-vous we had back in Toronto.

I've been trying to write a story featuring him for years. It's high time I finally get down to completing it. Perhaps now I can include real details like the name of his favorite beer and the fact that he loves Nineteen Eighty Four by George Orwell. Perhaps I can even include the pretty girl who has commented on every single one of his pictures, complimenting him but receiving no acknowledgment in return, although he has replied to other people's comments. I wonder who she is and how she knows him. Perhaps she has a crush on him too. He's definitely the kind of guy who would have girls vying for his attention, and he seems to know it too.

I always fall for this particular species of boys.

And I always end up just writing stories about them and nothing else. :P

Sigh.