@sowekeepon
He had a pretty sizeable circle of online friends in the writing community. He felt more comfortable being himself there, posting from the alias he publishes his poems under: Baptiste Benoit. He was in pretty frequent contact with most of them, though he’d not spent much time online since the funeral. When he flew back from France, it was in a hurry. Now that he’s a little more settled, he’d started chatting with his friends again.
The fact that one of them was in Manhasset, too, was too great of a chance to pass up. They’d made plans to meet up at a local bar, exchanging information on what they’d be wearing and what time they’d meet up - and Salem was excited. He rarely talked much about his writing in person, except occasionally with Armelle. She loved poetry. He settled himself at the bar, fruity cocktail in hand (Salem never really acquired a taste for beer, and had no shame in enjoying pina coladas, sex on the beaches, strawberry daiquiris, whatever was colourful and delicious), when the door opened and Skylar walked in. For a second he thought it was a coincidence, but she was wearing the same clothes his online friend had said she’d be wearing. No fucking way.
“Well, shit,” Salem said, brows shooting up. She must have realised, too. “Guess I better stop bitching about how none of you kept in touch all these years, huh?" Christ, the internet was a small place. Had he really been talking to Skylar through internet chatrooms and email for all these years?