You know what, Adam? You don’t get to just slink away into the shadows.
You don’t get to ghost me.
eight
Sitting in front of the fireplace in my living room, I call your phone again. This time, it doesn’t ring at all. Instead, there’s a harsh three-note tone, and a recorded message informing me that the number has been disconnected.
Disconnected? No.
A few more tries convince me that this was not a misdial on my part.
A gully is opening in my center, as I open up your Fakebook page again—only to find it gone. I hit refresh a couple of times; it was still there this morning—just a couple of hours ago.
But now, bold white type on a gray screen announces: This user is no longer active.
My fingers travel clickety-clack across the keyboard. Back to Torch.
We joked that your profile on the dating site was a kind of nonprofile, designed to scare away anyone not on the same wavelength. There was that unflattering selfie where you look brooding and your nose seems too big for your face. It is, in fact, too big for your face—in an oddly attractive way.
What does that say about you, I wonder? you pondered on our second date. That you found my not-trying-to-the-point-of-being-antagonistic profile appealing.
We’d just had burgers at the Shake Shack in Madison Square Park and were sitting on a bench outside the playground watching the city kids play and run and shout.
I really like Rilke? I offered, sipping on my chocolate shake.
You have a way of looking at me that is unnerving and exhilarating at the same time. It’s like you’re searching me with your eyes. You demand my gaze and then look deep. You’re present. So many people aren’t. People are sleepwalking, my father used to say. I hate it when I agree with him.
You sipped at your shake, turned your gaze away. A mischievous smile played at the corner of your lips. Your type—brooding depressives who want to be alone.
I shrugged. I thought you were being ironic. I mean—you did go to the trouble of putting yourself out there. You must be looking for something.
You chuckled a little, gave an affirming nod. Then, you put out your free hand, and I put mine in yours. We laced our fingers together. We hadn’t kissed yet. Somehow it felt more intimate than any other encounter I’d had in ages, including my recent hookups.
We’re all looking for something, aren’t we? I said. You never answered, but your smile deepened. Cast in the patina of what has happened—what has happened?—the memory of that moment darkens. What were you looking for exactly?
Now your profile—your nonprofile—is gone, too.
I’m chasing a shadow; you slip further into the ether.
My heart is thumping when I’m done looking for you, my throat dry. New fears start to crowd into my head, pushing and jostling against each other.
You spent a lot of time here at my place. I trusted you as I took a shower, ran errands. You had access to my files, my computer. The letter Dear Birdie just read and answered rings back at me.
His lies. I believed every single one.
The sweetheart scam. Wouldn’t that be something? If I had fallen for one of those. Me—the one who knows too well all the horrors of which people are capable.
I quickly get online and check all my financial accounts, but there’s nothing missing. Most of my Dear Birdie money is invested with a small private firm. My father thought the stock market was the ultimate con. But I’ve done well enough.
So even if someone hacked into my checking account, they would only get whatever was there, enough to cover monthly expenses—which are surprisingly low for a homeowner living in Brooklyn. The house was paid for long ago thanks to Dear Birdie’s success. And, again, it must be said, I’m cheap. Or frugal.
Everything above basic costs goes directly to my accountant, Marty, for saving and investing. He’s an old guy, a New York City lifer, a Depression-era thinker, so he admires my supersaver tendencies. Nothing you buy will make you feel as good as money in the bank.
I grew up without much. I also know what it feels like to lose even that. So, yeah, I hold on, I guess. Or maybe I don’t want to get used to having too much. I don’t know—it’s complicated.
Or maybe it’s my father’s voice: The more you want from the world, the more it holds you by the throat.
As I sit with my web browser open, news items flash in little banners at the top of my screen periodically. I can usually only read the first half before it disappears.
Virus spreads, Chinese officials warn world that—
Oxycodone deaths reach an all-time—