Macrowhining

He’s not replying. He always replies. But tonight, with a wet fog slithering through the stones that in no way resemble fairies, I can’t raise him anywhere. I used to worry I wouldn't find him online when I signed in. I didn't know where he lived — most CL posters are American, Californian. But he never seemed to sleep, never seemed to log off.

No reply has come yet, though. I tried shaking the phone. I checked the bars — still low, but steady. I clicked through another message. His log-in name is grayed out, which means he’s offline, or that he's made himself invisible. He could be sitting there in front of his machine, reading my messages, rolling his eyes at me, clicking them closed as soon as they popped up.

Tears burn my eyes. I blink.

Really? I’m this pathetic? Crying over a friend who exists only in 1s and 0s?

Apparently I am. I’m sitting on the fallen stone in the middle of the fairy circle, writing this post, making it way too long in the hope he’s only in the bathroom, or attending to some other physical need I never imagined he had. Waiting.

I didn't bother changing shoes when I left the pub — my internet-sale Doc Martens, 90s cliché that they are, can still handle anything from Bryn Davies's sheep pasture all the way up the wet slate trail to the top of the mound. It takes 35 steps, give or take, for me to reach the edge of the speck we called a village. Most of the windows are dark at this hour, and the village has never been big enough for streetlights.

I stopped at the gate that would let me onto the public walking path up the hill, and checked the mobile again – no bloody service, as usual. The hill schmoozed toward me out of the mist. It’s not much of a lump, not like the snowy peaks of Snowdonia to the north, but the mist still strangled its summit, shielding it from view. The walk to the stones is a bitch in the dark, and took a lot longer than I'd thought. I stumbled once, gashing my tights at the knee. Fuck. That’ll be another £5 on eBay. With my crap luck, the mist will block my reception, too. I touched the phone on — service, but not steady. IMing would be touch and go from here. I'd have to climb all the way to the top.

I paused at the base of the hill, staring up at its soft head, crowned with bristling chunks of granite. It would only take me another five or ten minutes to get up there, to get those few measly bars that represent a connection, a lifeline out of this toilet bowl. The climb always makes me feel like an ant, struggling against the swirling tide flushing us all down into ancient history. I started up, my boots squishing over the damp sod.

Halfway up. Flickering service. The IM app was nearly loaded.

One precious half a bar of service popped up as I topped the rise, breathing a little hard. When I was fifteen, I used to run up this hill. Now, at the ripe old untrustworthy age of 25, I practically need an airlift. Christ.

The IM app finally finished loading, and I pinged him, waiting.

And that’s when the cabrón insisted on not replying. And still hasn’t, even though I’ve written a fucking novel here already.

The stones peer sadly at me, stretching their shadows to blanket me. They’re nothing compared to Stonehenge in the south, but neither are they the tiny little rocks used to form most of the fairy circles in the region. This standing circle took some serious theological freaks to build. The mist is too heavy to inch its way up the hill, and above the stones hangs a rare clear night. The moon is absent, letting the stars preen in the black. I stare up at them, waiting for them all to fall at once, lighting the sky on fire, exploding through the atmosphere and wiping us all out like the soft sacks of water we are.

I’m sending one last message. Come on, Tal. Please don’t leave me dangling here.