Member-only story
Shameless Voyeur: Short Fiction
In these times of physical and social distancing, I’ve come to terms with my Facebook-stalking behavior.
Each morning, I wake up in my comfy bed, naked between warm flannel sheets. I pull the comforter up to my chin against the cool air coming in through the window. It’s early enough to hear my neighbor start his car engine, which he leaves running for precisely eight minutes — long enough to make me grit my teeth, but not long enough to get me out of my warm bed to shut the window: I like to begin my mornings with bird-song.
I snatch my cell phone from its charger and pull it beneath the covers, the screen flashes it’s welcoming blue light, and I begin my search. I cruise through my ‘suggested friends,’ which by now the Facebook algorithm knows is heavily weighted toward the opposite sex. If your name is Harlan or Garrett, chances are high I’ll use your name in a story. You might not play a starring role — you might just be the guy sitting on a stool when she walks into the bar. You might even be the bad guy, who she, like so many of us, initially thought was the good guy.
If your name is Kieran, you might get a second look, especially if your profile’s “about” section mentions your rustic life in the Scottish Hebrides, which I’ve always wanted to visit. The sand, the…
