Page 53 - WTP VOl. X #3

loses interest.
Alex has the habit of logging in to check for mail first thing. And he always has it. There is always some- thing from me, and always at least one other message, which I suspect to be Maria’s. I log in through an old Unix system so I can watch them. The finger doesn’t tell me how many messages there are, or from whom, only when he last opened his mail file and when the last piece of unread mail arrived. Maria, or the Maria- suspect, nearly always writes between midnight and one, west coast time. In Toronto, where she lives, that is three hours later, which shows her dedication. Most nights there is a flurry of messages during Alex’s first hour at work. I imagine they are trading her long day’s news, his night’s thoughts. And then, I imagine, still basking in the glow of connection, nearly at dawn, she goes peacefully to sleep.
My night’s message arrives five minutes later. ~
Hello, Tess. How are you? Yesterday I learned that So- nia’s apartment is directly across the street from the church with Leonardo’s painting of The Last Supper. Isn’t that incredible? Italy is full of places and things that once seemed legendary. But here they are, like The Last Supper, just casually existing. Take of yourself. Alex.
~
An electronic postcard. It’s not enough. But I leave it on the screen and read it again and again. Not just the message but the header, which has his name on it, and the time he wrote, and the place in which he casu-
ally exists. Right now he is sitting at a desk in Milan. Drinking his second cup of tea. I could write to him and ask questions, he would write back and tell me more. But I can see, fingering him again, that Maria is already doing this. New mail arrives while he types;
he reads it, types again, and more mail arrives. This is what I log in to see, more than his message. I need the opposite of reassurance. I need to see them together. If Maria lived in Berkeley, I would have met her, she’d be real. I’ve seen photos, but that doesn’t tell me how Alex looks at her. The Alex in my head, my Alex, isn’t this Alex, her Alex. I need to be reminded, every day, that Alex has been re-programmed.
I clear the screen but am reluctant to log off, to lose all connection. I have other messages to reply to, from friends and colleagues, but am not in the mood for any of these. I try to think of someone I want to write
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~
After the game, I make plans with Jacob and Anna to meet for dinner soon, tell them everything. It’s one a.m. when I get home. Ten a.m. in Italy. That’s when Alex usually gets to his office. And usually, within his first hour there, he writes to me. Alex has rented an apartment with no internet. On purpose. He wants to work undisturbed, he doesn’t want his two women
“A
n electronic postcard.
It’s not enough. But I leave it on the screen and read it again and again. Not just the message but the header, which has his name on it, and the time he wrote, and the place in which he casually exists.”
competing for his attention. Though that’s not what he says; he says he needs time to think.
I check, but no message yet. It’s a bit early. I pour a glass of wine, then go back to the computer and finger Alex to see if he’s arrived at his office. He has, and from the monitor idle times I get as I finger him again, ranging from zero to three seconds, I assume he is typing.
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