When Tim took the stage, when Amanda handed Tim a microphone, I prophesied disaster. He’s always been an artist, working in a variety of media, but he had never been a performer. Usually shy and reserved but more so in a crowd.

So the man that greeted the minor throng that had assembled in his honor, though by all appearances my old friend Tim, was a stranger to me; I had never seen him in this ight.

There were some who doubted my story of a third one-armed man ghostwriting an intimate love letter when witnesses swore the bottle had left my hands, Occam’s razor said not. Once Tim began speaking, however, no doubts remained because the Tim proclaiming over the sound system sounded exactly like the Tim we read in his letters. You could hear it in the tempo, the timing, the phrasing, his vocabulary and his pauses.

He looked the part, too, too well some had said but Tim was a good looking young man of the scrawny beatnik mod sorta way, an angry young m an cured by a bad woman’s loving.

That is a secret story only I know and them. His mind had poured itself ito the mold of his affection for a woman he barely knew, eight months from introduction to her wedding to another and most of the early months they shared had been wholly wasted as far as they were concerned – six months as friends and only three of those as lovers, so just barely.

From three months of loving, a couple might make a start but what followed was eight years of radio silence, not a word, not a peep shared between them. 

So all the love Tim has written about was all in his head; no knock on the resulting expression. Everything he felt was real but I don’t think anyone whould give much credit to his muse. She didn’t do anything but screw people over. Tim was always kind of crazy but she pushed hIm over the edge and. his life was worth more than his poetry.

I had thought she was conventional. I couldn’t have been more wrong; a femme fatale, an evil woman, definitely a rule breaker. This isn’t a. new opinion for me, based on her recent greedy behavior in the wake of Tim’s disappearance. No, I have always thought poorly of the way she treated Tim. But I’m not here to lay blame on anyone. I. just think the world needs to hear the whole story and realize exactly how brilliant my friend way.

I was in the crowd like everyone else. The stage was a platform, so there was no backstage. When Tim began to speak, his voice pouring over the crowd in a smooth, sultry seductio, ticking everyone until there was a wave of happy giggles and not only from women but from everyone.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
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