Every Seventh Wave Read Online Free PDF Page A

yourself to write me another email. Who are you writing to, in fact? Who do you think of when you think of me (given that, charmingly, you were reminded of me by a thunderstorm)? Do you think of your faceless and bodiless “dream” of before, of your “highest expression of love,” of your “illusion of perfection”? Or do you rather think of the shy girl from Café Huber who avoided eye contact? (If I hear from you within four weeks, I’ll go one step further and ask you WHAT precisely you think of when you think of either of the above.)
    Much love,
    Emmi
    Thirty minutes later
    Re:
    I’m thinking of the Emmi who, with fingertips so delicate they might vanish into the ether, brushes imaginary strands of hair from her face every thirty seconds and curls them behind her ears, as if she were trying to free her eyes from a veil, finally to see things as sharply and clearly as she has been describing them for ages. And I ask myself time and again whether this woman is truly happy in her life.
    Ten minutes later
    Re:
    Dear Leo,
    If I were to get an email like that each day, I’d be the happiest woman in the world.
    Three minutes later
    Re:
    Thank you, Emmi. But I’m sorry to say that happiness is not made of emails.
    One minute later
    Re:
    Then what? What is happiness made of? Please tell me, I’m bursting to know!!!
    Five minutes later
    Re:
    Out of security, trust, things in common, care, experiences, inspiration, ideas, beliefs, challenges, goals. And I’m sure this list is incomplete.
    Three minutes later
    Re:
    Yikes! That sounds like a nightmare, like some kind of modern-day decathlon, entire weeks of activities around the theme of happiness, with an exhibition of its underlying virtues and features. I’d rather get a daily email from Leo, with a small, imaginary lock of hair. Have a lovely evening! Glad you’ve not forgotten me.
    Kiss on the cheek,
    Emmi
    The following day
    Subject: A question
    Dear Leo,
    You know what I’m going to ask now!
    Twenty minutes later
    Re:
    Your determined use of the exclamation mark gives me a pretty good idea.
    One minute later
    Re:
    So, what am I going to ask you then?
    Three minutes later
    Re:
    â€œHow was London?”
    One minute later
    Re:
    Oh, Leo, that might be how you would put it. But by now you must know that I like to call things by their names. So: what’s going on with “Pam”?
    Fifty seconds later
    Re:
    First, “Pam” doesn’t need quotation marks. Second, Pam is called Pamela. And third, Pam is not a thing.
    Two minutes later
    Re:
    Do you love her?
    Three hours later
    Re:
    It’s taking you long enough to think about it.
    Ten minutes later
    Re:
    It may be too soon to talk of that, Emmi, or even to discuss it.
    Three minutes later
    Re:
    Nicely put, Leo. Now I have a choice. Either Leo means: it’s too soon to call it love. Or he means: it’s too soon to talk to Emmi about “Pam.” Sorry, Pamela.
    Five minutes later
    Re:
    Definitely the latter, Emmi. The way you’ve reverted so quickly to “Pam” tells me that you’re not ready to talk about this. You don’t like her, do you? You think she’s taking your email partner away from you. Am I right?
    Five hours later
    Subject: (no subject)
    Now it’s you who’s taking your time, my love, trying to find a way to deny it.
    Fifteen minutes later
    Re:
    O.K., you’re right. I don’t like her, first of all because I don’t know her, so it’s easier for me; second, because I’m trying my best to imagine her in terms as unfavorable as possible; third, because I’m managing that quite successfully; and fourth, because, yes, she does take you away from me, the rest of you, the writing bit, the little bit of hope. Hope for … for … who knows what for? Just hope. But I promise you: if you do love her, then I’ll learn to like her. Until then, do you mind if I say “Pam”