“Do you have a spot on the couch that’s yours? Like it has your imprint in it?”
“Absolutely.”
“Is it the same imprint as your granddad’s or different?”
“That’s never occurred to me. It’s the same. I used to sit on the other end when I was a kid. Now I’ve moved over, I guess.”
“See. A couch is telling. I already like your couch.” My heart is beating through my chest and I realize I can’t stop smiling.
“So, what about your couch?”
“I decline to answer.” I actually laugh out loud as I click send.
“You can’t decline!”
“There are rules? I don’t recall there being any rules.”
“Fine, I’ll guess your couch. I happen to be a couch psychic.”
“Good luck. I’m waiting.”
Then there is a pause, a long one. Long enough for me to realize my posture has straightened.
“I just realized something, William.” The words seem heavy on my screen, like the next text will be hard to accept. “I found a limitation of our together-separate relationship.”
I’m gasping at the sudden change of tone. I’m finding it hard to breathe. “What?”
“I’m not a stalker. If I guess your couch right, it won’t be coy or clever or funny. It will be creepy. I haven’t ever wanted you to feel that way about me. I don’t ever want to be that for you.”
I stare at the words, unbreathing.
In every task and adventure, my secret person has always been intentional about making me feel special, not watched. Honored, not manipulated. My heart has known this all along, so my skin tingles as my brain is hearing it articulated so purposefully. “You’re right. Thank you.”
I feel my eyes begin to glisten, my inadequate words becoming blurred pixels.
“It’s a vibe killer, I guess. Sorry.”
I wipe my palm across my eye and type frantically. “My couch is blue with some kind of corduroy pattern. It sinks in all the right places and is super cozy.” I click send with a sigh, leaning back in my chair, wiping the blur away again.
“Do you have couch pillows? I bet you have couch pillows.”
“No! I mean, yes. But just the ones that came with it. And maybe a few more that just happen to match perfectly.”
“Do you change them at Christmas?”
Now I’m bothered, huffing at the screen. “At Christmas you’ll know!”
“Hmmm. Can’t wait.”
Before I know it we’ve had ridiculous, important discussions about hotdogs, great or terrible fonts, types of cheeses, and—my favorite—the proper way to fold and store underwear. It’s gotten quite late, or early I should say, but my typing fingers don’t seem to notice. My smile muscles do, however.
“I have another adventure for you if you’re willing.” My screen tells me. “And it’s not alone.”
“I’m intrigued,” I text, hopeful.
“I’ll send you a GoodWord message tomorrow. It’s more mysterious that way.”
“I do love the mystery.”