You Have Mail

The shift at the hospital had been horrendous, short staffed (as
usual) and only one cup of tea through out the whole nine hours she had
been there.
As she exited the building, passing crest fallen nurses, doctors and
other employees on their way to begin their shifts, she silently
rejoiced that hers was now over.
The evening air though chilly, revived her a little and gave her just
enough energy to contemplate the drive home. It would take at least
three-quarters of an hour. She had two cigarettes in a crumpled packet
among the tissues in her tunic and the radio to keep her company.
Turning on the car stereo and lighting up a silk cut, she steered her
ageing fiesta out of the hospital car park and headed in the direction
of home.

David rotated his left wrist and stared in disbelief at his watch.
10:15 already? Shit! Where had the evening gone? Oh well, just another
ten minuets then I better switch off he thought, tapping his fingertips
along the keyboard. Something materialised on the screen before him
causing a smile to twitch on his lips.

Disconnecting the line with the press of a button, Sandra tossed her
mobile phone onto the passenger seat. It was absorbed by the many empty
crisp packets and useless scraps of paper that seemed to multiply
within the car. Promising, (for the millionth time), she vowed that she
would clean up the crap and maybe even treat her poor fiesta to a wash
tomorrow.
Deep down however, she knew that come this time tomorrow, the car would
still be as filthy and bulging with rubbish as it was now. Maybe even
more would be mysteriously added to the already limited space on the
floor and seats.
Her thoughts returned to the mobile phone. The number had been engaged.
Still!
Surely he had not been on the computer since she had called at six
thirty? The hectic shift had only offered a measly ten minuets respite
and she had spent five of those precious moments standing in the
corridor listening with growing agitation to the incessant
"beep...beep...." of the line.

Pulling up outside her favourite Chinese takeaway, she spotted a
telephone box at the end of the street. With the ridiculous notion that
using a different means of telecommunication would somehow bring the
desired ringing tones to her ears, she locked up the car and jogged
down the road.

"Bollocks to him!" she muttered angrily under her breath. "He can
bloody well go with out..." The telephone box had failed to produce
results.
As she sat scowling through the battered magazines, waiting for her
order, Sandra held on to her mobile phone subconsciously waiting for it
to ring.

With reluctance, and a deep sense of grief, David manoeuvred the mouse
in his right hand, scraping across the surface of the "Simpson's" mouse
mat. He aimed the white arrow to the corner of the screen and exited
the Chat Room. As the many lines of typed conversation blinked out
before his eyes, he was able to catch:

Bootiful_Babe: Speak to ya' tomorrow Davey!!! (...kiss kiss) I will
be
Thinking of you!! :o)

Fighting the urge to send a quick message back, he shut down Windows
and watched an orange message flickering on the black screen advising
that now was a good time to switch off his computer. He thanked the
monitor (a daft ritual he always played out commencing a stint in front
of the screen) and leaned over to reach through the tangle of
wires.
His elbow connected with an overflowing ashtray, knocking it from its
precarious place on the desk. He swore loudly and began the tedious
clean up operation. He lost patience rapidly and decided he couldn't be
arsed with it.
"Fuck this! I'll bloody do it tomorrow" He replaced the heavy ashtray
back onto the desk, leaving the corpses from the many cigarettes he had
smoked, (and empty cans of Stella), on the floor. As an after thought
he squirted a blast of "cedar and orange" air freshener, (carefully
directing it away from his precious computer) into the polluted
air.
He switched off the light and closed the door to his study (a tiny box
room filled with junk) and wandered into the hall.
On route to the toilet, he suddenly realised he was hungry. Christ. He
was starving in fact! He unhooked the phone from its cradle on the wall
and dialled Sandra's mobile number.

Sandra was crudely distracted from her thoughts by the ringing of her
phone. Other customers in the small takeaway glanced with annoyance in
her direction. The small screen on the phone indicated that "Home" was
calling. Finger hovering over the button, she mentally argued whether
to answer. Her thumb quickly decided for her and the connection was
lost. With a grim satisfaction, she paid for her meal and left.

Unable to resist the urge, she rummaged through the steaming paper bag
containing her chips. Scorching her tongue as she swallowed two crispy
fries at once, she relished the fact that David had missed out.
"Too late baby!" she shouted out into her freezing car.
The goody bag and mobile phone were placed onto the passenger seat.
Hope they survive the journey she thought.
As the intoxicating aromas from the China Garden takeaway mingled with
the less pleasing fragrance from the cigarette protruding from her
lips, Sandra once again wondered at David's latest obsession. His
bloody computer!
What had started out as "checking emails" (whatever "checking emails"
involved) had somehow grown into lengthy sessions in front of the
ghostly screen.
"Surfing the net" had been another favourite.
" Babe, I'm just "surfing the net" for a while" and he would be gone
for hours at a time, only leaving his dark pit to raid the fridge for
beers or the occasional sandwich. She had once sauntered into his
"study" wearing only freshly applied makeup and a coy smile in the vain
attempt to lure him from his den. The reaction had been the unoriginal,
"Babe, I'm just surfing the net for a while. Be in soon I
promise"
After she had consumed a bottle of wine alone and collapsed in bed, he
had still not materialised from his "surfing"

Sandra could not understand the attraction of the Internet. On the rare
occasions that David had allowed her to sit with him while he
tip-tapped on the keyboard (she had giggled and told him that he looked
like a crappy pianist), the boredom had been too unbearable for her.
How many times could you check the news or weather AND (she knew David
must secretly do this) The porn sites?
It all seemed a total waste of time and she was just about fucking sick
of it! Tossing the cigarette nub out of the window, she manoeuvred her
car round the corner of Glasby Street and parked out side their
house.
Retrieving her supper and phone from the depths of Walkers crisps
packets, she looked up at the second floor of their home. The "Study"
(she laughed, not for the first time, at this description of the room
filled with boxes and discarded shoes) and noticed that it was in
darkness. Well at least he's come off that sodding computer!

"Hello... honey I'm home!" (She never tired of this old chestnut!)
David's reply came, muffled from behind the living room door. Unloading
herself of the warm bag and mobile phone, she went in search of
alcohol. The fridge held no great surprises; the 12-pack of Stella she
had bought only yesterday had dwindled down to four. Sighing, she
grabbed one and set about preparing her supper.

Delicious smells drifted, teasing, to David's nose. Jumping up from the
settee he headed to the kitchen. Placing a kiss on the end of Sandra's
nose, he eyed the plate of chips and curry sauce.
"Where's mine?" he asked, suddenly aware that there was only one plate
of grub on the table.
"I DID try and phone you David...twice! Its not MY bloody fault if you
can't be arsed to unplug your brain from that fuckin' computer is
it?"

Here we go again he thought, The old: "Internet lecture".
"Well, it's a good job I've already had my tea then isn't it?" He
prayed that she wouldn't see the empty sachet of "cup-a-soup" by the
kettle. Stomach growling, he sauntered into the lounge. Switching on
the T.V he sat, longing for the bliss of the chat rooms...

Appetite now lost, she sat staring at the can of lager in front of her.
Shit, she had been in the house five minuets and already they had
started rowing about the computer again. Emptying the packet of its
final cigarette, she sat and wondered what to do. While curry sauce
congealed on her plate, Sandra sat blowing smoke into the air.
What the hell does he do on it? She knew he sometimes went into chat
rooms. (Once, while he had gone on a trip to the loo, she had sneaked
into his study and looked at the screen) The endless lists of
"Doodle_kins", "stud_muffins" and "Qwiddley_pop's", or whatever the
hell they called themselves, had merely baffled her further, rather
than enlighten her to the mysterious charm they seemed to hold over
him. These ridiculous aliases' seemed childish and downright ludicrous!
Why was David, HER HUSBAND! Doing, conversing with these half-wits? She
feared she would never find the answer. Unless, she too learned how to
access these places.
As she reached into the cold fridge, grabbing another can of Stella
she remembered the last time she had tried to venture into "his"
world.
What a pissing joke THAT had been!
She had had the afternoon off from work (a luxury that came only once
in a blue moon). She had stood outside his study looking at the brass
door handle, contemplating whether or not to go in. In a rare moment of
bravado, she had turned the handle, and walked into the room.
Christ it stank! Of stale beer and the familiar scent of many smoked
cigarettes. The computer sat (as ever) on the cluttered desk. A shrine
to alcoholics and chain smokers! Lighters and scraps of paper scrawled
with what might as well have been Egyptian hieroglyphics for all she
knew! Little codes, www dots and, (her heart had sank at this), a
photograph of David protruding from the scanner. She had remembered
taking the photo, sat outside a country pub in Cornwall. He had laughed
when she told him how handsome he looked. He looked delicious in fact!
Why was he sending it to someone else? She knew that scanners copied
photos and that you could send them to anyone via their "email address"
The only bit of information she had retained in her brain from the few
occasions shared with David in his study.
Fuelled by this discovery, Sandra had switched on the plugs, connecting
the computer (she hoped) to the monitor, which sat blankly on the desk.
The electrical whirring had initially alarmed her, but while reaching
to quickly turn it off, the screen had leaped into life. Numbers
whizzed across the screen and she had sat in the chair mesmerised by
the illuminations that dazzled her eyes.
That was about as far as she had got!
She was no computer whizz kid by anyone's stretch of the imagination,
but somehow she knew that the flashing cursor indicating: "password"
meant that she was fucked! The following half-hour had been spent
typing in first the obvious, "David Jackson" the cursor still
flashed.
"Sandra".... (He wouldn't be that silly she knew), then the ball-aching
flurry of birth dates, and special "pet-names". With a dull throbbing
behind her eyes she had at last succumbed to the more juvenile:
"shit-face", "Bollock-brain" "Twat-head"...The game was over and she
was no clearer to finding the truth than she had been an hour ago.
Cursing the screen, she had reached over and switched off the computer
by the plug socket.
It was only that evening that she had realised her mistake. David,
having eaten his tea had retreated to his upstairs hideaway had
suddenly bellowed down the stairs "Sandra, have you been on my
computer?" she had cringed inwardly, not knowing what to say.
"What the hell would I be doing on that piece of crap?" was her only
response in the short time she had to think of something. David had
thumped down the stairs, moaning that his hard drive had "fucked up"
and he now had the inconvenience of waiting while it "checked for
errors"
God! She had chain-smoked four fags while he paced the kitchen draining
a can of beer. She had mentally given herself a bollocking and vowed
never to touch the computer again...

Scraping the gooey mess that was once her tea, into the bin, Sandra
decided that sleep was the only thing that would ease her troubled
mind. Hovering outside the living room door, she listened to the sounds
emanating from the television. Taking a deep breath, she entered the
room.
David was lodged in his favourite chair, smoking and staring into
space.
He seemed oblivious to her standing there, watching him with a frown
creasing her brow.
As he dragged deeply on his smouldering cigarette, thoughts of his
favourite chat room buddies filled his head. He tittered softly at some
private joke he had shared and felt a deep ache in his chest.
The bang of the living room door slamming against its wooden frame
jolted him into reality.
Christ! Whats her problem now? he thought with irritation. That job of
hers is getting her down. I dunno' why she sodding works there!
He stabbed his cigarette into the cramped ashtray and promptly lit
another from the packet resting on the arm of the chair.

Less than half an hour of her thumping up the stairs to bed, David
crept into his favourite room of the house.
With a wide grin spread across his cheeks, he pressed the necessary
keys and buttons on the keyboard. He stretched out his back, settled
into his chair and with the last can of Stella out of the fridge, he
flexed his fingers in anticipation of an hour or two in "30's"
chat.

In the bedroom next door, Sandra closed the bulging suitcase with
difficulty. She sat down heavily on the crumpled quilt wiping the tears
away with the sleeve of her coat. She stood up and walked on stiff
legs, to the far wall of the room. Placing her ear against its smooth
surface, she could hear the relentless tapping of his fingers on the
keyboard. The smell of his cigarettes drifted through the opening of
the door and she breathed it in deeply.
Leaving a note, containing only three sentences, Sandra dragged the
suitcase off the bed and shuffled out of the bedroom. With courage she
never knew she possessed, she passed his study and descended the
stairs. Leaving her keys on the small table by the front door, she left
the house and walked down the short path to her battered old
fiesta.
She realised she had left her mobile in the kitchen and just as she
turned round to retrieve it, she stopped her self.
"Why the hell do I need THAT for?" she whispered into the cold night
air.
Fishing the car keys out of her pocket, Sandra Jackson opened her car
door and hurled the heavy suitcase onto the passenger seat. She didn't
care about the crisp packets any more. Settling herself onto the
drivers seat, she looked up at the second floor window. Blue-white
lights danced off the glass pane.

As his wife drove off into the cold October night, David sat in front
off his computer wringing his hands in glee as the speakers next to his
monitor announced that he had an email...