The Daemon Lover, 2020

Somebody’s having her first night chatting with Jamie right now. He’s charming her and she’s already getting hooked. He’ll tell her that he likes women who smoke, and he will tell her how rare that is, to find a woman who smokes cigarettes in 2020. She will be pleasantly surprised, and she’ll open right up to him, and a few days in, she’ll comfort him when he tells her that his mom died when he was young, and she’ll think it’s sweet when he asks for her opinion on the sweater he might order.

A week of morning messages, three hour chats, little video clips, and especially his photos. He goes into the wilderness, alone, and finds the perfect shots. He’s gifted, no doubt, and she will see that. How is this man still single, never married? she will wonder and will think that there must be something she hasn’t seen yet, some hole inside that explains why he is alone. That same day, she’ll tell herself to stop worrying, to stop being silly, to allow herself to accept this good fortune without reservation. There will be another email with photographs he has taken of wild desert rock formations, black and white. She’ll tell him how talented he is, and he’ll tell her she’s making him blush.

They will chat for hours, typing away as their messages cross, childhood memories through this year’s struggles. There will be a connection. He’s clever, cunning, and he will make her laugh. She will be surprised at how easy it is to tell him everything. He will tell her again, and again, how rare it is to find a connection like this online, in just a few short days, how amazed he is by it all. She will agree. Every night, he will wish her sweet dreams, and every morning, just after sunrise, they will smoke their first cigarette of the day and drink a cup of coffee together, alone, phones in hand. She will smile at how quickly this routine has developed, how right it already feels.

On the eighth day, she will drop some hints that even during a global pandemic, she is ready to meet him in person. If she is prone to daydreaming, she is already imagining herself as Mrs. Harris. By now, she will have told her friends about him, and maybe even her mother. “He’s an artist,” she will tell them. “I’ve fallen for him so quickly!” He will send her a photo of the meal he has just cooked for himself: Ahi tuna steak. Mascarpone orzo with golden raisins. Mushrooms, asparagus, and red Chile beurre blanc. “Oh!” she will type. “That looks AMAZING!” And in her head, she will see him in her own kitchen, glass of wine in hand, bringing that same dish to her little table. She might even imagine it in black and white, like his photos, a love affair in a classic movie.

And then, finally, around day 9 or so, he will ask to meet her in person. He will tell her he knows that dating during a global pandemic is risky, and that they can socially distance. It’s ok if she’s not comfortable with that, he will reassure her. She will demur for only a moment, and then quickly agree. He will be coming to her place, sitting 10 feet away in a camping chair, daytime in the outdoors, close enough to see her, but far enough to be safe. She might even bake some cookies for him, to be left just outside her garden gate.

She will sing while she showers that morning, and she will take an hour fussing over her coffee. Should she wear the dress that’s in her profile photo, the one he complimented her on, the one that’s blue and classic and familiar? Or would it be better to wear the frilly flowered one, the one that’s more youthful? She’ll curl her hair, and fret over finding a mask that matches. The one that matches the floral dress is a bit shabby, so perhaps she should change into the blue? But it’s already almost 10 o’clock, and Jamie will be waiting. She will stick with the floral. She will feel pretty. If there’s still time, she will email her sister, to tell her how funny it is, that this has all happened so quickly.

And then, as the afternoon begins to fade into dusk, she will worry that he hasn’t replied to her messages. She hasn’t even told him her address yet, or set a firm time. “Jamie,” she will write, “are we still on for today? What time?” And she will see that he has not been online for hours, that he has not read her last message. As the sun begins to set, she will change out of the floral dress into sweats and a t-shirt. Her curls will be drooping. At first, she’ll imagine that he’s been in an accident, that he’s lost his phone somewhere in the wilderness. It’s not until after a sleepless night has passed and the sun rises that she will truly believe that he will not be coming. She might email him – match chat can be glitchy after all – and ask him if he is ok. He will not reply.

She’ll try to distract herself, but she will find herself checking her email every hour, refreshing their chat, waiting for him to explain. Surely, there will be something. A flat tire on a desert mountain road, a stumble into a deep crevasse. It’s snowing now; is he safe? She might even check the police blotter – has there been an accident? He hasn’t posted any photos on his Instagram yet today; the last one is the one he’d shared with her a few days before, the long-abandoned adobe ruin with a sagging roof, black and white graffiti covering its face. She doesn’t know any of his friends to call, and even if she did, what would she say?

Later, she will see that he is online, on match, that little green dot next to his name. He has still not read her last message, still not replied to her email. As evening comes again, she will imagine that somebody’s having her first night chatting with Jamie right now.