But—let me get one thing straight—are you saying that finishing the list and enjoying the list are two separate issues, or something? Isn’t the list made up of things you want? Things you fantasize about, maybe?
I’m really hoping you didn’t just call me a hipster, by the way. I’ve read that sentence like ten times, hoping you wouldn’t dare. I am not a fucking hipster. I don’t even have a mustache. I just think Instagram is where self-esteem goes to die.
“Debt” is an interesting word to use, when you’re talking about two people helping each other out. Are you scared I’ll help a little too much, and you won’t be able to help me back, and next thing you know, I’ll be banging your door down like a bailiff and I’ll take your laptop as retribution? Because that’s definitely not going to happen.
Yours sincerely,
Red
Dear Red,
(You write emails as if they’re letters, and it’s ridiculous, and now you’ve got me doing it. Disgraceful.)
“Button”? I do have a middle name, but that definitely isn’t it. As for my supposed hero worship of you, I am sorry to say that you have made a mistake. The truth is, I am occasionally mesmerized by how outrageously ginger you are. I do hope that doesn’t hurt your feelings.
The list has nothing to do with “fantasies.” I told you before, it’s about building life experience. I suppose I should tell you that I was almost hit by a car. When my life flashed before my eyes, it was rather uneventful, so I’m taking the necessary steps to rectify that. It’s really quite simple.
I think your definition of a hipster is roughly a decade behind the times, which frankly makes you even more of a hipster. Read my words now, very carefully: You. Need. An. Instagram. Account.
I’m so glad we had that talk.
I’m also very happy to hear that you don’t ever plan on trying to take my laptop, because, while I do spend a lot of time indoors, the length of a murder sentence might be a touch too long, and prison beds would absolutely ruin my back.
Yours, supposedly,
Chloe
Dear Chloe,
(Emails are internet letters, so my way is the right way. You’re welcome.)
“Button” because you always seem to be wearing them, and I don’t know where you find all those old-fashioned clothes. What’s your actual middle name? I bet it’s something ridiculous, like Fenella.
You should be really proud of yourself, by the way. It takes a lot of guts to admit to a man that you’re mesmerized by his amazing hair, and I appreciate the compliment. I promise not to bring it up too often. Once a day, tops.
That’s rough about the whole “near death” thing. Really, it is. But—and I’m not trying to tell you what to do here—but don’t you think, if your life ever flashes before your eyes again, you should remember all the shit you enjoyed? Rather than the stuff other people care about? I don’t know. Just a thought.
As for the Instagram account . . . you really are so damn bossy. I thought maybe the bossiness was a case of speaking before you think, but you’re typing these emails out. You’re reading them back to yourself. And you’re still so fucking bossy. Incredible. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I’m not even complaining anymore. I respect it.
Still not getting an Instagram account, though.
Yours SINCERELY,
Red
Dear Red,
Buttons add a certain dignity to an outfit, in my opinion. And I’ll have you know that my clothes are actually retro, and they are very stylish.
My middle name is Sophia. I suppose it has a similar ring to Fenella, but it’s not quite as ridiculous. Sorry to disappoint.
Perhaps I should’ve been clearer on the hair—mesmerized is such an ambiguous word. What I meant to say was, is it true that gingers have no souls?
The list is really not up for debate, since it has already been immortalized, and since I am committed, and also because I’m right and you’re wrong. I trust you understand.
I’m starting to think that your aversion to Instagram hides some deeper-seated issue. You mentioned it being where self-esteem goes to die. I hope you know I’m not suggesting that you use it for selfies and the like, though really, there is no need to be shy. You generally look passable.
Yours sincerely (this is beyond silly),
Chloe
Dear Chloe,
Just so you know, I like your clothes. Not that I go around telling women about their clothes, like anyone cares, but I realized it sounded like I might not like them, and that isn’t accurate. I know you’re into accuracy. So. There we go.
Although I hate to break it to you about those buttons, Button—they’re more cute than dignified. Sorry.
Sophia isn’t even slightly ridiculous, but I forgive you. And, on the subject of my soul, the rumors are true. Don’t have one. So watch your step.
If you want to talk about my Instagram “issues,” I want to talk about how hung up you are on this list, and why. Does that sound like a fun conversation? Because I’m ready when you are.
Good to know I look passable, though. For a soulless ginger, and everything.
Yours sincerely (not silly),
Red
Dear Red,
Well, thank you. You are, of course, correct; I always look excellent. But if you actually intend to start calling me Button, I may sew one into your tongue.
While it would be very thrilling to think I rode on the back of a soulless demon’s motorbike, I feel compelled to point out that your behavior suggests you do in fact have a soul. For example, the way you let that very boring man from the third floor barge up to you whenever he likes to whine about the lightbulb that keeps going out. Clearly, he’s doing something questionable with that lightbulb. And yet, you keep replacing it.
I have seen sense and decided to abandon the Instagram topic. For now.
And, since I feel like you might have misunderstood, I wasn’t being serious before. You really do look fine. Nice, even. And you have lovely hair.
Yours sincerely,
Chloe
Dear Button,
I would love to see you try and sew something into my tongue. Really. I need to witness this in action. I’m sure you have a detailed plan. Are there drugs involved, a good whack over the head, or are you just planning to hold me down somehow?
I can’t really comment on a tenant’s behavior, but I can confirm that, considering the number of times I’ve been up to SOMEONE’S flat to change the same fucking lightbulb, I really must have a soul. An extra shiny, golden one.
And don’t worry; I knew you were joking. I was joking, too. But I might fish for compliments more often because you really snapped up that bait.
By the way—you’ve now spent the whole day emailing me, a client. That’s a lot of hours, really. So maybe we should talk about your list tomorrow, just to make sure everything’s even.
Yours,
Red
Dear Red,
You’ll soon get to see my violent plan in action, since you flagrantly ignored my button threat, and extorted compliments from me, too. Come over tomorrow when you finish work, and I will attack. Or show you the list. We’ll have to wait and see.
Yours,
Chloe
Chapter Nine