Yes. That is a great idea.
Best idea I’ve ever had.
I use my phone to block out the moon. Take that, moon. Now, I may not know his surname, but surely old mate Willy follows him. Shock horror, he’s the only Arthur in Bill’s follow list. He’s probably the only Arthur under seventy anywhere.
His grid is a bit bare and not at all good for stalking. He’s barely in it. His last post was six months ago. The next one,eight months. A photo of that one rock in Yosemite that everyone takes. Two bowls of pasta and two glasses of wine. An amusing sign outside a public toilet in Lisbon proclaiming it the best toilet in the city. From about three years ago, there is a picture of Arthur and a woman (untagged) at the wedding of two people named Simone and Giovanni. He is wearing a different neatly tailored suit. And his pocket square matches her dress.
I click the little message icon in the corner.
Hi! It’s Gertrude, your fellow chaperone. This might be a weird question, but what did you mean when you said that you knew I wouldn’t say no to coming tonight?
I send it before I can overthink it, which is a mistake because now I have an indeterminate amount of time to overthink his reaction to my unhinged behaviour. But there’s a sense of accomplishment too. I have taken action, so surely that means I can now fall into a deep slumber, dragged under by the weight of my purposefulness. I pull the blankets over my head.
It’s a nice thought.
I sent it one hour ago. He hasn’t seen it. He is probably asleep, like a normal person.
Three hours later, he hasn’t seen it. I’ve spent that time very productively watching weird videos of Reddit stories read by robots set to baking visuals.
He sees it at nine o’clock. I have been at work for an hour already. But today I keep my phone in my pocket. No three typing dots yet.
He answers at ten.
He doesn’t have the basic human kindness not to mention the timestamp of my own message.
Jesus, why were you still awake at 3.30? The
wine knocked me out clean when I got home.
Is William still there?
I assume so. Ascertaining otherwise would have involved looking anywhere but straight ahead as I briskly walked out the door. I yawn, taking the opportunity of my open mouth to pour in more strong latte. Saves me using the muscles twice.
Also, how did you find my Instagram?
Oh, I get it. You were the sleuth who found
William for Bee. That makes way more sense.
Stop! Stop knowing everything, you insufferable omniscient git!
Then:
I don’t know.
I feel like there’s no way to say this without
coming off as an asshole. I feel that this is
major growth for us in that I care about not
being an asshole to you. I agree. But it just
kind of seems like everything revolves around
Bianca. And what she wants. Does that make
sense?
