Imaginary Friends

I wanted to take a walk today, but Sarah was busy. She doesn't care for strolls in the forest, embers of light burning through the treetops.

I am reading a short story by Arthur Miller that I'd like to discuss with someone, but Quimby doesn't care for literature – not of that kind where people keep on their clothes, anyway.

Later, I'd like to attend a rally of the sort I am used to, but Sam wouldn't want to come. He isn't pro-life.

The pottery class downtown is fun, but I hate to go alone. I know Susan isn't up for that sort of thing. She doesn't like liberal types.

I'd like to sing songs in the pavilion later this week, but Troy would not be interested. He doesn't care for bluegrass.

I saw a new tea in the window of the Little Teacup storefront window that I'd like to try with biscotti and jam, and I know Stewart isn't into that sort of thing.

So, later on, as I'm writing at my desk, quill in hand, I compose a character.

I call him Adam Wynstrom. He likes writing, loves a good cup of herbal tea, short stories, reading poetry, walking in the woods, babies, and singing his heart out.

He comes to my house, and we sit, and we talk.

'How is it going today, Anna?', he asks, swiping his hand through his gelled dirty blonde hair, his tweed pants relaxed, showing ankles clad in dark socks, his Oxford shoes reflecting glints off the sun, legs crossed at the knee.

'It's going quite well,' I respond, gingerly looking out the whitewashed pane and into the countryside. Trees dot the landscaped grass, green blades spritely bursting toward the hot orb in the sky.

'Do any reading lately?'

'Why yes, yes, I have,' his azure eyes blaze, as they stare directly into mine.

I tell him about Arthur Miller, and we chat, seemingly for just a few minutes, but really a span of hours. How the time seems to flit about so. We laugh as topics meander here and there, enjoying the pleasant weather amid the dainty English calico paper on my walls in a slanted upstairs room.

Adam is not entirely imaginary, however. He is as a pie made from ingredients: a lemon pulled from a tree, wheat threshed from the field, eggs from the nest of a chicken, milk from the udders of a cow.

He is a Sarah's propensity to sit and be truly present; he is Quimby's love of High Street fashion. He is Susan's immense delight in baked goods, farm-to-table jellies, and a fanciful array of herbs steeped in hot liquid with a dash of sugar.

He is Troy's ability to engage in lofty conversation; he is Stewart's perennial friendship. He is all of them. He is all of me. He is made from ingredients from the ones I love the most, and he keeps me company. But really they all do.

For, though, I cannot do with some of their politics or their leanings, or though I cannot stomach some of their habits, they sharpen me. I would not be the same without them. And though in my mind, I find respite with the character of my making, the real thing is still much better than that which appears to be perfect. Though they may not know me to the extent that Adam does or be the right fit in all the ways, flesh and blood is always better than imaginary friends.