Random Snippets...and an Untitled Short Story?

Ever find an old document, which is obviously fragments of different things, and have no idea what most of them were? That's what this is...

Suzanne Flechette was a haughty twenty-year old French expatriate living with her wealthy family in the Louisiana territories.

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And so writing for her became a labor of love. Each time he thought of her protractedly, which was often, he wrote. He typed, he edited.

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“But you hardly know me,” she protested.

“I know you,” he proclaimed huskily.

 ----

“You’re doing it all wrong,” she said, and handed him another case of paper. “You can’t make someone fall in love with you by writing.”

     “I know,” he said. But he did not. “It’s my secret vice. She’s…, it’s an addiction.”

     She eyed him quizzically through squinting eyes. “Obsession?”

     “No, nothing like that. More like dedication. To an ideal, if nothing more.”
     “What ideal is that?”

     He finished stacking the 11” x 17”s and stepped down from the stepladder.

     “Union. Fidelity. Honor.”

     “That’s a pretty tall order. I think I read it on a flag, once. Are you sure you don’t just want to do her?”

He blushed.

“Alright, sorry. That’s all part of it, right?”

“That part is easier to understand,” he said. “But there’s a desire for kinship there that’s both sacred and profane. In part, it’s redemption. I have learned how to be a great partner the hard way.”

“So tell her. You’ve worked together for ten years. Hell, I’ve worked for you for two, and you’ve been crazy about her the entire time. You have to do more than address her politely and write stories no one will ever read.”

“She’s married.”

“So? Everyone in the world is, in one way or another. It doesn’t mean she’s happily married.”

“Or that she even wants to be married. To anyone. Sure.”

“Maybe you got the brush off already, and ignored it.”

“Right. That’s the feeling I get. Or is that self-doubt that becomes self-fulfilling?”

“Why her? You should publish. You could have a thousand women like her.”

“No, not like her. She’s entirely unique. She’s not an archetype.”

Rachel rolled her eyes at this. The endless teacher drama, much less teacher-principal drama, was wearying.

“There’s more. Have you ever heard of the principle of least interest?”

“No, I can’t say that I have.”

“Consider this, then. Control of a relationship lies with whomever cares the least.”

She pondered this a moment. “That’s a pretty ugly view of things.”

“It’s not a view, just a fact of life. And I don’t want to be that person. I’m done caring the least.”

“I see.”

“But you’re suggesting that the alternative is to wear your heart on your sleeve, as it were?”

“I don’t think I’m suggesting anything at this point, boss,” she said, looking away demurely.

A voice from the outer office said, “Hey, guys! I got another chapter!”