Continuing from here. This storyline started here.
“So you won’t admit that your editorial of Dr. Golgecci was a little harsh?” Holly grilled Chuck.
“It’s an opinion. Everyone’s entitled to an opinion.”
“Really? Is it your opinion that Dr. Golgecci is a necrophiliac? What do you think of the odds of me being more interested in your lifeless corpse when it comes to sex? Do you have these opinions about everyone?”
Chuck hadn’t really expected the Spanish Inquisition. He typically wrote rather sensational and often wrong headed fairly opinionated diatribes which he thought were entertaining. He was very fond of Holly all things considered. Sure her temper was a little trying at times but it existed because she cared. And honestly, that was something Chuck hadn’t experienced often enough. Probably my own fault, he thought.
Holly was right that Golgecci brought them together. In a moment of optimism, Holly submitted a cheerful essay answer to what she wanted in a lover. Tinkering with his own view of the cosmos, Chuck had done the same. It was weird how they had read the same books and the book conversation happened kind of as more of a hunch than a moment where they had to talk about something. As a moment, it might well have been perfect.
But can the instincts powered by a similar taste in fiction really indicate the level of compatibility Chuck was looking for? He wasn’t the type to let an issue lie. Nor would he be satisfied if he found on his deathbed that somehow he had settled before finding his unique path through life. But then, you don’t meet a Holly everyday, she’s the kind of person you want to see again tomorrow too. Still, if a wrench were ever found in the plans of Holly and Chuck, the wrench would belong to Chuck, the tinkerer.
Holly was loyal to the people who had benefitted her, to a fault Chuck would say. Golgecci doesn’t become a saint just because he matched Holly and Chuck’s email addresses. Chuck was grateful but skeptical. Chuck was always skeptical. And by the way, he thought to himself, don’t forget to look into Crow, Sylvester Crow. Some loony nearly killed the modern day Christ that was Golgecci. Don’t martyr him before I figure him out, that’s all I ask.
He looked up at Holly’s furious flushed face, which was just a tightened version of her worried flushed face or her horny face, also flushed. She probably wouldn’t want him to make all those connections between her genuinely different emotional states.
“You’re right, Holly.” And then he moved his hands reassuringly with the intent to stir up the same distraction in Holly as he was feeling right then. Golgecci could wait.