The Letter 'F'

Walking down to the Computer Pod one a[f]ternoon, I got lucky.
F-word: [F]ortunate.

Being so unattractive, and having accepted that, I looked down as I walked across the grounds. O[f] all the disgusting, gelatinous blobs in the world, I had no right to disgrace any persons with my visage. Not until the Bosnians had completed their regime.
I walked, eyes downcast, vison obscured.

And I bumped into him.
It was cinema!
He bumped into me.

We mutually 'bumped.'

"Oh, sorry, didn't see you there." He said, rubbing his glasses on the hem o[f] his shirt. His voice was no less per[f]ect than digital. And he grinned like he always had on my monitor. That smile that partially distorts his [f]eatures, though he's still absolutely [f]lawless.

"No, it's [f]ine, really." I said quickly, basking too much in the sheer maudlin romanticism I was thinking. Then panicking about what the hell to say next.

"Yeah, sure it is," he said, [f]acetious. "I can see you're quite obviously bothered."

"Ha!" and I clapped my hand over my mouth. He raised an eyebrow.

"'Ha!' madam? What 'Ha!' is this?"

"My good sir, I meant no insult." I tried to redeem mysel[f]. We began to move in the opposite direction of the Pod. "It's just, i[f] you are who I believe you to be, your utterance of 'bothered' is nothing short of hilarious."

"How supremely comedic. And who do you believe me to be?"

"Sir, i[f] I'm correct, your Emmy's brother."

"I am, but do you know which Emmy?"

"I do and I can say, most assuredly, that you are not Emmy Clark's. I've met the [f]ellow and know him a bit too well."

"How intriguing."

"Not really, sir. Not at all."

It started raining. Of course, it was really just humidity and the sun kept shining (as it does). I'd thought I'd been sweating other screams.
Stupidly, I turned my [f]ace towards the sky and watched gravity pull water down on us.

He took my hand and pulled me under one o[f] the pavillions strewn haphazardly over the grounds. Other 'campers,' unnoticed by me until now, joined us in their search for shelter.

"You were saying?" He said, capturing my [f]ocus again. I [f]orgot my observations and possible observants.

"Oh! Um..." I tried to remember.

"How [f]ascinating!" He remarked in his previous sarcastic tone.

"I'm sorry! I'm just a bit shocked, Neil." And I slammed my hand over my mouth again, wincing as my teeth cut into my upper lip.

"Ha!" He recreated my interjection exactly. "Ha!"

"Yes, very [f]unny." I was almost catty with sel[f]-annoyance. "Am I correct?"

"Oh, verily, Miss...?"

"Noire."

"Miss Noire? That hardly seems [f]air."

"'[F]air!'"

"Not at all, madam!"

"-Moiselle!"

"Apologies, but just the same! It's not [f]air at all. Why should you have my [f]ull name and I not yours?"

"Silly man, you've had it [f]or years."

"Have I?"

"The Internet's commons are just that, sir: common."

"Ah, o[f] course."

And I knew this was my loathsome cue. I closed and reopened my eyes, looking him straight in his.

"Well." I stuck my hand out to shake his. Predictably, he kissed it instead. "Good day, Mr. Cicierega."

"Good day, Miss Noire." He bade me and sighed.

I stomped off into the rain.
I stomped off, into the sun.