Waxman

Kinda Weird, Badly Written Short Fiction:
I banged this out quickly without any prior thought or consideration (that's what she said).



The arid weather kept his skin in check. The lack of sunlight kept his organs intact. If there was ever a time for the Waxman to venture outside, this was it. He carried flowers, a small fan wrapped around his neck by its cord, and walked stiffly to his destination. You might wonder how a man made of wax could do such a thing, let alone exist, and you wouldn't be wrong in thinking such things. But this story is not about the origin of the Waxman, or about how his sculpted body functioned. This is a story of love and loss, and it will be told here just how it was. Perhaps it was her online quote that forced him to brave the outdoors. "I like rare people." He appreciated her attitude and thought to himself, "I can't think of any other waxmen. I must be rare enough to be worthy of meeting such a nice woman." And so they corresponded, her attraction to him based on his verbal wit, and his on her photo and implied heart. "And now I must win her over." The Waxman searched the internet and watched several hours of local television programming to deduce when would be the best time. On the day in mind came a delivery of flowers. Her address was known to him recently, asked for in order to send her a gift. What she did not know was that he would be delivering it himself. And with the fan dangling from his neck and the flowers tightly wrapped in his wax hands, the Waxman rang her doorbell. He did not blink, for he was without eyelids, and he did not worry, for he was sure this was the right street and she would love him a thousand times for coming to see her in person. No reply. A minute. An hour. The Waxman stood motionless at her front door, the flowers at his side. He stood till the streetlights went out. He stood until the paperboy threw out the news. He stood there until the sun rose. And then she opened the door and his heart melted. Curious why the newspaper was drowning in a pool of wax, flowers, and a fan, she scooped them all up and carried them inside. She cleaned the wax off of the paper and left it on the table. She then placed the flowers in her sink. The fan, plugged in next, and the wax that covered the items? It was made into a candle. The Waxman's heart may have been melted to its bare essence, but his loved burned and burned for years until she died.