In the classifieds section on page thirty-six of today’s paper, I read three adverts from lonely souls, all seeking something, as people do. I envisaged these sorry scribblers as mid-career professionals, educated and discourteous people with nothing to lose. Their ideas were a bit vague for my liking. Still, I cut the adverts out, put them in my little tupperware container in the pantry, and made a rough copy of each one:
I.
I’m seeking a nemesis. You’ll be under six feet tall and have brown hair, blonde in some lights. You’ll have green eyes and pink hands. You’ll like taking family holidays. You’ll also like to dance and smoke, when you’re drunk you’ll high-five your friends and tongue kiss them. You’ll write technical papers, you’ll read Hegel. On request, you’ll be happy to contort your mouth into a rictus grin. You’ll have plans to write a career advice column. You’ll be in good health, bronzed and vascular, with a nice spread of freckles across your cheeks. You’ll have views on AI safety, you’ll be happy to walk me through them. You’ll want to talk about Cameron Diaz, her face, her forearms, all day and all night. You’ll have some foibles: you won’t shut cupboard doors, or your gob, you’ll say you don’t talk in a baby voice even though you do. You’ll be languid, a little bit dead. You’ll have consistent Wi-Fi coverage, you’re looking forward to automating your work and evening routine. You’ll come from a loving family. You’ll pay my living expenses without realising. When I want to stay in bed all day, you’ll hurry upstairs, open the curtains and say: look how lovely it is outside, it’s gorgeous, let’s get going. Sometimes you’ll wear a face that you keep in a jar by the door. When I say you’ve disappointed me, you’ll cry, you’ll flail around, you’ll generate an anime image of Rumpelstiltskin in a turtleneck, which you’ll email me with the subject: SIMON, YOU’RE TEARING ME APART. You’ll be a total cutie. You’ll have theories, you’ll believe in them.
II.
I don’t care what you look like, not one bit, you could be a city or a tree for all I care. Ideally, you make plans, you follow through, you work too much, that’s enough for me. Maybe you missed three opportunities to 5X your net worth: but you’re fine, you’re sanguine about it, another opportunity will come along. You’re scared of indoor swimming pools, the chlorination, the heat, the slime in the water, it makes you feel ill. You’ll remember bumping into a former nemesis on Nevsky Prospekt, you’ll think about how far you’ve fallen, what a life you once had. You have a secret ambition: to buy the sun. Every evening you’ll come home, slip off your crocs and say: oh, finally some freedom for my poor little feets! You’ll call your mother often, you’ll promise to go and see her, and you will, you’ll bring a charcuterie board and a nice little china teacup. You’ll write book reviews for autists. When you see me strolling around in forty-degree heat, wearing linen trousers and a button-down shirt, looking like a vagabond poet, you’ll jab me in the ribs and say: why are you wearing long sleeves, don’t you own a pair of shorts, what the fuck’s wrong with you? You won’t be a good girl. Hopefully you can start right away. You’re serene, you’ll have a lisp.
III.
You don’t need to be a baddie, but it wouldn’t hurt. On some days you’ll be high in openness, on some days low. You’ll have a thin, scratchy little voice, you’ll talk at all times in iambic pentameter. You’ll eat your cake before your dinner, despite a daily reminder that if you don’t eat your meat, you won’t get pudding. You’ll be boring. You’ll have made good decisions, you’ll be wealthy, you’ll feel slightly guilty, but not much. You’ll be wry and happy to handle my emails. You’ll talk about your depressive years (which you’ll imply, in that horrific voice of yours, are behind you) as ‘those dark days of dogdom.’ You’ll want people to like you. You’ll be an insomniac. You may already have a nemesis, no problem, we can work something out. You’ll have kind and supportive friends who want the best for you. You’ll be happy to spread rumours. It would be best if you can’t read. You’ll have grown up in a loving family. Sometimes you’ll be so sweet you’ll make yourself sick. You’ll secretly believe that I like you, I love you, I’m infatuated with you, I want you to stand in the doorway of my room and watch over me while I’m dreaming about you. And when you have nightmares that my face is in the ceiling, screaming that it’s over between us, I’m sorry, I’m not who I said I was, you’ll break down in tears, you’ll collapse to the floor, you’ll wrap yourself around my leg and scratch and bite at my thighs.
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A middling batch this week, nothing unusual. I highlighted a few phrases in each one that I’d like to keep private for now. I think I’ll reply to the first and the second, but won’t bother with the third. We’re too similar, I doubt it’ll work out.
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