Love Virtually Page 3
Have a nice day,
Leo
Three days later
Subject: Crisis
Dear Leo,
I had resolved to wait for another email from you before I wrote one myself. I may not have studied language psychology, but a couple of things are chiming in my mind.
1) Between the lines I’ve given away that I’m not only married, but happily married to boot.
2) You reacted to this news with possibly your least enthusiastic response since our virtual togetherness began so auspiciously more than a year ago. And then you don’t email me again at all. Have you lost interest in me? Have you lost interest because I’m already spoken for? And could it be that you’ve lost interest because I’m happily spoken for? If that’s the case, you could at least be man enough to tell me.
Best wishes,
Emmi
The next day
Subject: (no subject)
LEO?
The next day
Subject: (no subject)
LEEEEEOOOOO! ARE YOU THE-ERE???????
The next day
Subject: (no subject)
Asshole!
Two days later
Subject: A lovely message from Emmi
Hello Emmi!
I come home after an exhausting conference in Bucharest, a rather gloomy city not exactly bursting with attractions, in what they perversely refer to there as springtime (snowstorms, frosts). I switch on my computer, open the in-box and, among the mountain of messages ranging from the superfluous to the pathetic from 500 merciless senders, find four emails from Mrs. Rothner—a correspondent highly esteemed for her way with words, ease of expression, and bullet points. Feeling like a defrosting Romanian snow bear I’m looking forward to some nice, soulful, witty, heart-warming lines. I open the first email with a sense of euphoria, and what do my eyes alight on first?
“ASSHOLE!” What a great feeling—thanks for the welcome!
Emmi, Emmi, Emmi! You’ve been doing some great hypothesizing again. But I must disappoint you. It doesn’t bother me in the slightest that you’re “happily spoken for.” I’d never intended to get to know you better, better than this electronic correspondence could allow. Neither have I ever wanted to know what you look like. I’m painting my own picture of you from the messages you write. I’m constructing my own Emmi Rothner. Your main features appear the same as they were when our contact began—it would make no difference whether you’d had three disastrous marriages, been happily divorced five times, or whether you become cheerfully “unattached” again on a daily basis, and are wild and single on Saturday nights.
Whatever the case, I’m sad to see that contact with me is wearing you down. And there’s one thing I don’t understand. Why is a happily married woman (of indeterminate age) with size 6 1/2 shoes, who’s not at all frustrated by men—an ironic, witty, charming, and self-confident woman who’s fazed by nothing—so keen to correspond with an unknown, sometimes grumpy, crisis-prone professor type, who’s damaged by relationships and has a poor sense of humor? Why is she willing to chat about so many things that are so intensely personal? What does your husband make of it, for that matter?
Two hours later
Re: A lovely message from Emmi
First things first: Leo the Snow Bear is back from Bucharest! Welcome home! Sorry about the “asshole,” but it seemed the obvious thing to say. How am I supposed to know that I’m dealing with someone not of this earth, who’s not in the least disappointed when he discovers that his trusty and politely sarcastic correspondent is already spoken for? Someone who’d rather create his own Emmi Rothner than get to know the real thing? If you would allow me to be the tiniest bit provocative: however convincing your fantasies, my dear Mr. Language Psychologist, your creation can’t hold a candle to the real Emmi Rothner. Was that provocative? No? Thought not. I fear it’s quite the opposite: it’s you that’s winding me up, Leo. You have this unorthodox and yet unerring way of making yourself appear more and more exciting: you want to know everything and at the same time nothing about me. Depending on your frame of mind on any given day, you express either your “serious interest” or your pathological lack of interest in me. Sometimes that’s heartening, sometimes irritating. Just now I’m heartened, I have to admit. But perhaps you’re one of those solitary, repressed, (Romanian) wandering gray snow wolves who can’t look a woman in the eye. A man who has a terrible fear of real-life encounters. Someone who is forever constructing his own realms of fantasy because he can’t find his way in the living, tangible, real world. Perhaps you’ve got a genuine complex about women. I’d love to ask Marlene about that. You don’t by any chance have a telephone number for her, or for the Spanish pilot? (Joke! Don’t go off in another three-day huff.)
It’s just that I’ve got a crush on you, Leo. I like you. I like you very much! Very very very much! And I just can’t understand why you wouldn’t want to know what I look like. I’m not suggesting that we should see each other. Of course we shouldn’t! But I have to say I wouldn’t mind knowing what you look like. It would explain a lot. I mean, it would explain why you write the way you do. Because then you’d look like someone who writes the way you do. I’d badly like to know what someone who writes the way you do looks like. And that would explain it.
Speaking of explaining things: I don’t want to tell you about my husband. You’re welcome to tell me about all your girlfriends (if you’ve got any that aren’t in your in-box). I could give you some good advice; I’m brilliant at empathizing with women, because I am one, after all. But my husband . . . O.K., I’ll tell you: we have a fantastic, harmonious relationship and two children (he was kind enough to bring them with him, to spare me the pregnancies). We don’t really keep secrets from each other. I’ve told him that I’ve been emailing a “nice language psychologist.” He asked me whether I wanted to meet you. I said I didn’t. Then he said: So what’s it all about, then? I said: Nothing. He said: I see. And that was it. He didn’t ask any more questions, and I didn’t want to tell him more either. I don’t want to talk about him any further, O.K.?
So, my dear snow bear, over to you: What do you look like? Tell me. Please!!!
All best,
Emmi
The next day
Subject: Test
Dear Emmi,
I’m finding it hard to resist your hot-and-cold emails. Who’s actually paying us for the time we’re whiling away here together (or not together)? And how can you fit it in with your career and your family? I assume that your two children have at least three chipmunks or similar to keep them busy. Where do you find the time for such an intense and full-on correspondence with a strange snow bear?
So you’re dead set on knowing what I look like? O.K., here’s a suggestion. I propose a game. A crazy game, admittedly, but you ought to get to know another side of me. I bet that out of, let’s say, twenty women I could identify the one and only Emmi Rothner, whereas you’d never guess the real Leo Leike among the same number of men. Do you want to take a crack at this experiment? If you agree we’ll work out how we do it.
Have a nice afternoon,
Leo
Fifty minutes later
Re: Test
Definitely, let’s do it! What a daredevil you are! This is what I think, but you’re not to hold it against me: I don’t think I’m going to find you at all attractive, dear Leo. Almost definitely not, as I don’t find that many men good-looking apart from a few exceptions (mainly gay). Quite the opposite—but I don’t want to go into that just now. So you think you’ll be able to recognize me straight off? In that case you must have a mental image of me already. What was it you said? “Forty-two years old, petite and bubbly, short dark hair.” Well, good luck to you if you think you’ll spot me from that! So how should we do this? Shall we send each other twenty photos, with one of ourselves among them?
All best,
Emmi
Two hours later
Re: Test
Dear Emmi,
I suggest that we meet in person without knowing it, i.e., we should stay in a crowd. We could go to Huber, the big café in Ergelstrasse, for example. You must know it. There’s always a very mixed crowd in there. We could choose a window of two hours—perhaps one Sunday afternoon?—when we’d both have to be there. If there’s a constant stream of people coming and going we won’t draw attention to the fact that we’re trying to suss each other out.
As for possible disappointment on your part—if my appearance doesn’t check all the boxes—maybe even after our encounter we shouldn’t reveal what we really look like. The most interesting thing is whether and how one of us thinks we’ve recognized the other, not what we both actually look like. I’ll say it again: I don’t want to know what you look like. I just want to recognize you. And I will. What’s more, I no longer think my earlier picture of you is accurate. You seem to have shed a few years (despite husband and children), Mrs. Emma Rothner.
And there’s one more thing. I love the way you keep on quoting from my old emails. It must mean that you haven’t deleted them. How flattering!
What do you think about my meeting idea?
All the best,
Leo
Forty minutes later
Re: Test
Dear Leo,
There’s just one problem: if you figure out which one’s me, you’ll know what I look like. If I figure out who you are, I’ll know what you look like. But you don’t want to know what I look like. And I’m worried that I won’t like the way you look. Will that be the end of our exciting journey together?
Or to put it another way: is this sudden desire to identify each other an excuse not to send emails anymore? I would find that too high a price to pay for my curiosity. I’d rather remain anonymous and get emails from the snow bear for the rest of my life.
Kiss,
Emmi
Thirty-five minutes later
Re: Test
Nicely put! I’m not worried about our meeting. You won’t recognize me. And I’ve got such a clear picture of you that it needs only to be confirmed. Should my picture of you (contrary to all expectations) be inaccurate, however, I won’t work out who you are anyway. Then I can preserve my fantasy image.
A kiss from me too,
Leo
Ten minutes later
Re: Test
Maestro Leo,
It’s driving me nuts that you’re so sure you know what I look like! In fact I think it’s downright impertinent. One more question: when you gaze at your high-res fantasy image of me, do you at least like what you see?
Eight minutes later
Re: Test
Like, like, like. Is that really so important?
Five minutes later
Re: Test
Yes, it’s crucial, Mr. Moral Theologian. Well, it is for me anyway. I like 1) to like. And I like 2) to be liked.
Seven minutes later
Re: Test
Is it not enough to 3) like yourself?
Eleven minutes later
Re: Test
No, I’m far too narcissistic for that. Anyway, it’s easier to like yourself if you know that other people like you too. You probably just want to 4) make your in-box happy, am I right? Your in-box is a tolerant sort. You don’t have to brush your teeth for your in-box. Do you still have all your own teeth, by the way?
Nine minutes later
Re: Test
At last, I’ve got Emmi’s blood racing again. To close the subject for the time being, I really like my fantasy image of you—if I didn’t, I wouldn’t think of it so often, dear Emmi.
One hour later
Re: Test
So you think of me often? That’s nice. I often think of you too, Leo. Maybe we shouldn’t meet up after all. Night-night!
The next day
Subject: Cheers!
Hello Leo,
Sorry to disturb you so late. Are you online? Interested in a glass of red wine? Not to share, obviously. I should tell you that I’m already on my third. (If you don’t drink wine, please lie and tell me that you enjoy a glass from time to time, or a bottle, all in good measure. You see, there are two kinds of men I can’t abide: drunks and ascetics.)
Fifteen minutes later
Subject: (no subject)
I’m just about to drink my fourth, and then I’ll pass out.
Your last chance for today.
Seven minutes later
Subject: (no subject)
Shame. Your loss. Thinking of you. Night-night.
The next day
Subject: Shame
Dear Emmi,
I’m really very sorry to have missed our romantic midnight assignation at our computers. I’d have drunk a glass with you in a flash, to you and to virtual anonymity. Would white wine have been O.K. too? I prefer white to red. No, fortunately I don’t have to lie to you. I’m not often drunk, and neither am I always monk-like. O.K., I’d ten times rather be drunk than ascetic; ten times over, and twenty times more often. Take Marlene (remember her?), Marlene didn’t touch a drop of alcohol. She couldn’t take it. And what was worse, she couldn’t take a single drop I drank either. Do you know what I mean?
That’s when you start living at cross-purposes. When it comes to drinking, it’s got to be both of you or neither.
As I said, it’s a real shame that I couldn’t take up your enticing offer yesterday evening. I’m afraid I got home far too late. Another time.
Your online-drinking-buddy-to-be,
Leo
Twenty minutes later
Re: Shame
Home far too late? Leo, Leo, where have you been, gadding about in the night? Don’t tell me a Marlene successor has turned up. If that’s the case, you’re going to have to tell me all about her right now, so I can put you off. You see, all my instincts tell me that you shouldn’t be getting involved with anyone at the moment, you’re not ready for another relationship. And anyhow, you’ve got me. Your fantasy of me must come much closer to your concept of the ideal woman than someone you’ve met in a bar (for single snow-bearish professor types) with red plush seats at two in the morning, or however late it was. So from now on please stay at home, and from time to time we can drink a glass of wine together around midnight (yes, it can be white wine in your case). And then you’ll get tired and go to bed, leaving you rested the next day, ready to send more emails to Emmi Rothner, your imaginary goddess. Does that sound like a plan?
Two hours later
Re: Shame
Dear Emmi,
How wonderful to be able to experience the beginnings of another truly enchanting outburst of jealousy! That sounds rather Italian, I know, but I enjoyed it anyway. As for my relationships with women, why don’t we give them the same treatment as your husband, two children, and the six chipmunks. Here’s not the place! Here there’s just the two of us—for the two of us. We’ll stay in contact until one of us runs out of steam or loses the will. I don’t think it’ll be me.
Enjoy this lovely spring day,
Leo
Ten minutes later
Re: Shame
I’ve just remembered—what’s happened to our recognition game? Don’t you want to do it anymore? Should I be worrying about your bleary-eyed plush bar squeeze? What about the day after tomorrow, Sunday, March 25, from 3 p.m. in Café Huber? It’ll be really busy. Let’s do it!
Emmi
Twenty minutes later
Re: Shame
Of course, dear Emmi. I look forward to picking you out. But I’ve already got this weekend planned. Tomorrow I’m off to Prague for three days—just “for pleasure,” so to speak. But how about indulging in our parlor game next Sunday?
One minute later
Re: Shame
Prague? Who with?
Two minutes later
Re: Shame
No, Emmi, just don’t.
Thirty-five minutes later
Re: Shame
O.K., do what you like (or don’t like). B
ut don’t come running to me afterward with your love problems! Prague is just perfect for love problems, especially at the end of March: everything’s gray, and at night you have anemic dumplings and dark beer in some pub that’s wood-paneled in the darkest shade of brown imaginable, watched over by an underemployed, depressive waiter whose reason for living stopped with Brezhnev’s state visit. It’s all over after that. Why don’t you go to Rome instead?
It’s almost summer there. I’d fly to Rome with you.
So our game will have to wait a while longer. On Monday I’m going skiing for a week. I don’t mind telling you who I’m going with, my trusted correspondent: with one husband and two children (but no chipmunks!). The neighbors are going to look after Wurlitzer. Wurlitzer is our overweight tomcat. He looks just like a jukebox, but he always plays the same tune. And he hates skiers, which is why he’s staying at home.
Have a lovely evening.
Emmi
Five hours later
Re: Shame
Are you home yet, or are you still hanging out in that plush bar?
Night-night,
Emmi
Four minutes later
Re: Shame
I’m back home. I’ve been waiting for Emmi to check up on me. Now I can go to bed in peace. I’m off early in the morning, so I hope you and your family have a good week’s skiing. Good night. Read you soon!
Leo
Three minutes later
Re: Shame
Are you wearing pajamas?
Good night,
E
Two minutes later
Re: Shame
Do you sleep naked, by any chance? Good night, Leo.
Four minutes later
Re: Shame
Hey there, Mr. Leo, that was really quite erotic. I didn’t think you were up to it. I’ve no desire to dispel the prickling tension that’s emerging between us, so I’d better not ask what your pajamas are like. Good night then, and have a nice time in Prague!
Fifty seconds later
Re: Shame
Well, do you sleep naked?
One minute later
Re: Shame
He really wants to know! For the purposes of your fantasy world, my dear Leo, let’s say it depends on who I’m sleeping with. Hope you two have a nice time in Prague!