It was in the rhythm of the sentences, the uniqueness of punctuation, the choice of words. All those little things told me that it was her, who she was, what she felt, her mood and her reactions. I imagined her lips shape the words I witnessed on screen, her fingers resting on a keyboard, her eyes scanning my words, the signal I pained for, keystrokes I chose in anguish to find those that would please her the most. I became nothing short of addicted. I clung to my keyboard night after night, my heart stopping every time she revealed herself to me, in a new disguise every time, my heart sinking every time she didn’t show up. And every time, there was that sudden rush of dead cold fear. What if she didn’t sense what I sensed? What if I meant nothing to her? What if all I was to her was letters on a screen, a little digital amusement, an online pet-project to be discarded when boredom kicked in? What if she was, in fact, just leading me on? *** ‘Oh, she hasn’t.’ the Linux girl said.. One night, after I had cooked dinner and hadserved her, I stood obediently next to my wife, waiting for permission toaddress her.She looked at me. "What is it, maid?" Madame Beringer, I think someone is looking at me."She laughed. "What gives you that idea, maid?" Madame Beringer, as I move around the house from room to room, at timesI glance out the window and I think I see eyes looking here."My wife laughed again, continued her dinner and dismissed me as soon as Ihad finished cleaning up.But the next evening she came home and pasted a small, black and whitesign on every window of the house, facing out. "Piano lessons: Tuesday,Thursday, and Saturday, 4 pm" and there was a phone number."Madame Beringer, we do not give piano lessons, we do not own a piano,and that is not our phone number," I protested.She laughed.But the following Tuesday I was dismissed early from my job and orderedto be home by 3:30 pm. At 4 pm exactly, my wife made me stand in theliving room next to the window. She.
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