I could only feel Aaron’s lips pushing on my lips. No hand on my shoulder, breast, or waist. No weight of his body pressing on my body, as if he had lost all his physical being but the lips. I opened my eyes to verify that it was Aaron. His eyes opened a few seconds after mine.
Aaron and I had met on Facebook about five or six years ago. He was a nobody working at Chipotle turned into an internet celebrity through essays on his wife and kids, first published on Facebook and then on Substack. People fell for his plain, warm voice and discovered in it what being a family is supposed to mean. Honestly, his writing à la Chicken Soup was not to my taste, but it is likely that I was simply jealous. I stayed a nobody writing novels in a studio apartment, while Aaron was giving lectures to unprivileged teenagers all over the country, organizing online book clubs for recovering alcoholics, and digging wells for rural towns in Southeast Asia without running water.
I had two published novels and one short story collection. They sold less than two thousand copies in total and did not help me pay the bills more than Aaron did. After discovering that we lived in the same city, he often let me participate in his newsletter or events. Without him, I wouldn’t have had my ongoing fiction writing workshops or paid subscribers to my Substack.
What I gave him in return was to be his drinking buddy. I was divorced and available, without any day job or friend to take up my time but Max, my shepherd that required me to walk him past midnight so he could poop. At some points, I wanted to tell Aaron that he had a drinking problem, watching him gulp down glasses of whiskey while I was yet to finish a bottle of beer, but concluded that it was none of my business.
This day though, we were getting hammered together. I was rambling on how easy it was for attractive young girls with slightly suggestive profile pictures to get subscribers or publishing contracts with their shallow essays, while I was an anti-social dog lady with pug-like wrinkles. He briefly answered that I was attractive too, but that was not the answer I wanted to hear. To be fair, he was too drunk to notice my dissatisfaction and buried too deep in his own petty miseries.
“You know, we get married to become happy, right? No?”
It was the third time I heard the same question. He had written an essay for his newsletter, and his wife was angry at the way he depicted her brother.
“Then she said, like, oh, why don’t you write down what I’m saying so that all your, your subscribers can read about it later? She never reads anything, all our marriage I have never seen her read a fucking single book, doesn’t understand anything, has never believed that Substack is my job, a real job now, but is still pissed at what I write. She even laughed at me when I was getting bigger, thinking that I am stupid or something. I mean, if she doesn’t take my writing seriously, okay, but why get angry at it then? It doesn’t mean anything to her.”
I was getting bored. He was taking out his phone every hour to take a look at his Substack statistics. When he asked me what my divorce had been like, I told him only how far I had gone to make sure that it was I, not my ex-husband, who got to live with Max. “Go through the divorce and find out yourself. It sucks but it’s still better than sacrificing your own happiness to stay in a marriage for others’ sake,” I said, not noticing that I was falling into a doze.
Then I woke up to find him kissing me. Opening his eyes, Aaron seemed to be more surprised than I was. He muttered something of an apology. His apology resulted in my sudden dislike for him. I preferred men who did not apologize because they did not have to.
Two weeks passed without contact from Aaron. Sitting on the toilet, I was scrolling down on Substack. A note from Aaron appeared, announcing a new piece of writing he published. His essay was on how to make up after a fight with one’s spouse. I chuckled so hard that I had to catch my breath. His wife was right after all.
I unsubscribed from Aaron, deleted the Substack app from my phone, and sent him a message that I no longer want to be featured in his newsletter. I wondered for a while if the loss of a free subscriber would make him sad. After all, he would notice it in an hour or so.
I hope you liked my flash fiction on Substack, which deals with none other than Substack. Meanwhile, there is an announcement that I have to make.
I will be taking part in the Gibberish Writing Competition, which means that I will be posting three 2000-word stories in April. Although I have never made a formal announcement, I have been trying to post here every Tuesday. Now the posting schedule will change during this month: a story at a time, on April 10th, 19th, and 29th.
I am honored and glad to be competing against, and competing together with
Well then, see you on April 10th!
If you enjoyed my work, you can also buy me a cup of tea. I am not a coffee person, by the way.
Your piece really reads pretty cleanly. It is funny but I had an idea for a substack story too but mine is a bit darker than yours. I like this slice of life like stories, so refreshing. Also good luck with the competition. Looking forward to reading yours and the other contestants work.
Nifty premise! I enjoyed this. I'm very much looking forward to seeing more from you & our co-competitors.