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One night, I sent her a message thanking her for the last two months, letting her know that however unorthodox it had been, I had loved every minute. I know she would love to see “Owl Jeopardy,” where every response starts with “Whoooo.” I know she gets mildly aroused talking about compound miter saws and has a weird thing for hands and likes to sing songs about her cat.
But I don’t know what she looks like when she sleeps.
Later that evening, she challenged me to a game, at 6 p.m. I told her I always botch clichés — “It’s not like it’s rocket surgery.”Falling asleep that night, happier than I’d felt in some time, I wondered if I was being catfished.
Those six hours had been too good, the kind of night you dream about, and then suddenly the sun is rising.
Still, if there was ever a week when I could have used six hours of nightly companionship, that was it. They are of me sitting on my couch furiously tapping away on a three-inch screen to a woman on the other side of the world, a woman I know both intimately and not at all.
We stretched it out for another few weeks, playing a single move per day accompanied by a single chat, neither of us willing to concede the end. I know how she felt when staring into the eyes of a buffalo up close.
On the Words With Friends board, we were both masters of the endgame, but there didn’t seem to be any endgame for us in real life.It’s strange to miss someone you have never actually met.In the morning, I awoke to a message she had sent from the airport, waiting out a delay.I had internalized the idea that love is having someone who cares about every utterly benign detail of your travel.“I made it! “Man, I think I parked in the furthest possible spot.” “The line at security is insane — is it spring break or something? It stung even more when my plane touched down several hours later with nobody to tell I’d arrived safely. After she returned, we slid right back into our routine of increasingly intimate disclosures. One night, I told her my memory is extremely selective: I’ll remember she played the clarinet until sixth grade, yet consistently forget her birthday. By that point, we had long stopped being surprised at the freakish number of coincidences.The times we each tried to rescue a hurt animal we came across. Fittingly and as promised, I don’t remember what day that was.