Love Virtually & Every Seventh Wave

Daniel Glattauer

Contents

Title Page

Love Virtually

Copyright Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Every Seventh Wave

Copyright Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Love Virtually

Daniel Glattauer

Translated from the German by Katharina Bielenberg and Jamie Bulloch

First published in Great Britain in 2011 by

MacLehose Press
an imprint of Quercus
21 Bloomsbury Square
London WC1A 2NS

First published in the German language as Gut gegen Nordwind
Copyright © Deuticke im Paul Zsolnay Verlag Wien, 2006

English translation copyright © 2011 by
Katharina Bielenberg and Jamie Bulloch

The moral right of Daniel Glattauer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

The translators assert their moral right to be identified as the translators of the work

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library

Print ISBN 978 1 906694 97 5
Ebook ISBN 978 0 85738 459 1

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk and
www.maclehosepress.com
@lovevirtually

CHAPTER ONE

15 January

Subject: Cancelling my subscription

I would like to cancel my subscription. Can I do so by e-mail?

Best wishes,

E. Rothner

Eighteen days later

Subject: Cancelling my subscription

I want to cancel my subscription. Is that possible by e-mail?

I look forward to hearing from you.

Best wishes,

E. Rothner

Thirty-three days later

Subject: Cancelling my subscription

Dear Sir/Madam at Like magazine,

Are you deliberately ignoring my attempts to cancel my subscription? If you’re trying to offload more copies of your rag which, let’s face it, is gradually going down the drain, I regret to inform you that I’m not going to pay another cent!

Best wishes,

E. Rothner

Eight minutes later

Re:

You’ve sent your message to the wrong address. This is a private one: woerter@leike.com. You want woerter@like.com. You’re the third person who’s sent me an e-mail trying to cancel their subscription. It must be a really shocking magazine.

Five minutes later

Re:

Oh, really sorry! And thanks for putting me right.

Best,

E.R.

Nine months later

Subject: (no subject)

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from Emmi Rothner

Two minutes later

Re:

Dear Emmi Rothner,

We don’t know each other in the slightest but I’d like to thank you for your warm and highly original round-robin e-mail! One thing you should know: I just adore round-robin e-mails.

Rgds,

Leo Leike

Eighteen minutes later

Re:

Excuse the written imposition, Mr Rgds Leike. You seem to have slipped into my contacts list by accident – a few months ago I was trying to cancel a subscription and inadvertently got hold of your e-mail address. I’ll delete you straightaway.

P.S. If you can think of a more original way of wishing people a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year than “Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year”, please do share it with me. Until then: Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

E. Rothner

Six minutes later

Re:

I wish you a pleasant Christmas break and trust the forthcoming year will rank as one of your top eighty. And if, in the meantime, you subscribe to some bad times, please do not hesitate to contact me – in error – to cancel them.

Leo Leike

Three minutes later

Re:

I’m impressed!

Best,

E.R.

Thirty-eight days later

Subject: Not a cent more!

Dear Management of Like,

I have endeavoured to part company with your magazine three times in writing and twice by telephone (I spoke to a lady called Ms Hahn). If you insist on sending it to me, I’ll have to assume it’s for your personal entertainment. I’d be happy to keep your enclosed bill as a souvenir so that I can continue to remember Like when you finally stop shipping me your latest issues. But please don’t imagine for a moment that I have any intention of paying it.

Yours faithfully,

E. Rothner

Two hours later

Re:

Dear Ms Rothner,

Are you doing this on purpose? Or have you taken delivery of some bad days?

Rgds,

Leo Leike.

Fifteen minutes later

Re:

Dear Mr Leike,

Now I’m seriously embarrassed. Unfortunately I have this chronic “ei” problem, or rather an “e” before “i” problem. If I’m typing quickly, and I’m trying to type “i”, somehow I always manage to slip in an “e” before it. It’s as if the tips of my two middle fingers are fighting over the keys. The left one is always trying to be that bit quicker than the right. The fact is, I was born left-handed and made to write with my right at school. My left hand hasn’t forgiven me to this day. It keeps tapping out an “e” with the middle finger before the right hand can type an “i”. I’m so sorry to have bothered you – it (probably) won’t happen again. Have a nice evening.

E. Rothner

Four minutes later

Re:

Dear Ms Rothner,

May I ask you a question? And here’s a second one: How long did it take you to write your e-mail outlining your “ei” problem?

Best wishes,

Leo Leike

Three minutes later

Re:

Two questions for you: How long do you think? And why are you asking?

Eight minutes later

Re:

I’m guessing it took you no more than twenty seconds. And I’d like to congratulate you on having produced a brilliant message in such a short period of time. It put a smile on my face. And that’s something that no-one else will do this evening. As to your second question: I’m currently involved in a project on the language of e-mails. So now I’ll ask you again – am I right in thinking it took you no longer than twenty seconds?

Three minutes later

Re:

Ah, so you work professionally with e-mails. Sounds fascinating, although now I feel a bit like a guinea pig. Oh well, who cares? Do you by any chance have a website? If you don’t, would you like one? If you do, would you like a better one? That’s my job, designing websites. (So far this has only taken me ten seconds – I’ve been timing it, but then again it was a work conversation, and they’re always much snappier.)

I’m afraid you were completely wrong about my utterly banal “e” before “i” e-mail. It must have robbed me of at least three minutes of my life. I wonder what the point of it was? Now I’ve got a question for you: Why did you assume that my “e” before “i” e-mail took only twenty seconds? And before I leave you in peace once and for all (unless those guys at Like send me another bill), there’s one more thing I’d like to know. You wrote above: “May I ask you a question? And here’s a second one: How long did it take you etc…?” I’ve got two questions in return. First, how long did it take you to think of the joke? Secondly, is that what you call funny?

An hour and a half later

Re:

Dear unknown Ms Rothner,

I’ll answer you tomorrow. I’m going to turn off my computer now.

Good evening, goodnight, whatever.

Leo Leike

Four days later

Subject: Open questions

Dear Ms Rothner,

Please forgive me for not having replied earlier, but my life is somewhat chaotic at the moment. You wanted to know why I wrongly assumed it had taken you no longer than twenty seconds to tell me about your “ei” mistake. Well, your e-mails seem to “effervesce”, if I may be allowed to make this observation. I could have sworn that you were a fast talker and typist, a bubbly individual who cannot go about her daily business quickly enough. When I read your e-mails I can’t detect any pauses. Both their tone and tempo seem to be bursting with energy – breathless, zippy, even a touch excited. Your written style is not that of somebody with low blood pressure. I imagine that your spontaneous thoughts flow into your e-mails unchecked. And then your language shows confidence; you have a skilful and deliberate way with words. But if you’re telling me that it took you more than three minutes to write your “ei”-mail, then I must have painted a false picture of you.

Unfortunately, you asked about my sense of humour. It’s a sorry state of affairs. To be witty, you have to find at least one thing about yourself that’s remotely funny. I can’t think of anything about me that’s comical at the moment, to tell the truth – I feel utterly humourless. When I look back at the past few days and weeks, all laughter escapes me. But that’s my personal tale and it has no place here. Thank you, in any case, for your refreshing manner. It’s been awfully nice corresponding with you. I believe all your questions have now been answered, more or less. If you happen to err into my inbox again, I’d be delighted. Just one request: Please could you cancel your Like subscription now? Or would you like me to do it for you?

Best wishes,

Leo Leike

Forty minutes later

Re:

Dear Mr Leike,

I have a confession to make: actually, my “e” before “i”-mail didn’t take me longer than twenty seconds. But I was irritated that you’d presumed I was someone who just dashes off e-mails. It’s the truth, of course, but you had no right to know it before now. Still, even if you have no sense of humour (at the moment), you obviously know a lot about e-mailing. I’m impressed that you managed to see straight through me! Are you a professor of literature?

Best regards,

“Bubbly” Emmi Rothner

Eighteen days later

Subject: Hello

Hello Mr Leike,

I just wanted to tell you that the folks at Like have stopped sending me their magazine. Did you have anything to do with it? You could e-mail me sometime, by the way. I still don’t know whether you’re a professor. Either Google’s never heard of you, or it knows how to keep you hidden. And how’s your sense of humour these days? Mind you, it’s carnival time. No competition there then.

Best regards,

Emmi Rothner

Two hours later

Re:

Dear Ms Rothner,

I’m so glad you’ve written again – I’ve missed you. I was just about to get myself a subscription to Like. (Beware, my sense of humour is coming back!) And did you really Google me? How flattering! But to be honest I’m a little disappointed that you think I might be a “professor”. You see me as some old fart, don’t you? Stiff, pedantic, a know-all. I’m not going to bust a gut trying to prove to you that I’m quite the opposite; that would only be embarrassing. But I may be writing like someone older at the moment. And I suspect that you write like somebody younger than you are. As it happens, I’m a communications consultant and a university assistant in language psychology. We’re currently working on a study that’s looking at the influence of e-mail on our linguistic behaviour and – the much more interesting part of the project – e-mail as a medium for conveying our emotions. This is why I tend to talk shop, but in future I promise to restrain myself.

I hope you survive the carnival festivities! My impression of you is of someone who must have quite a collection of false noses and party hooters. :-)

All the best,

Leo

Twenty-two minutes later

Re:

Dear Mr Language Psychologist,

Now it’s my turn to test you (as if I haven’t been doing so all along): which part of the e-mail you just sent me do you think I found most interesting, so interesting in fact that I urgently need to ask you about it?

And here’s some useful advice concerning your humour: the sentence “I was just about to get myself a subscription to Like” was promising – or so I thought! But when you added “(Beware, my sense of humour is coming back)”, you blew it, sadly: you should have just left that out! I liked the bit about the false noses and party hooters. We’ve clearly got the same non-sense of humour. But trust me, I do recognize irony when I see it – spare yourself the smiley!

All the best, nice chatting to you,

Emmi Rothner

Ten minutes later

Re:

Dear Emmi Rothner,

Thanks for your humour tips. You’ll make a funny man out of me yet. And I’m even more grateful for the test! It gives me the opportunity to show you that I’m not (yet) the “self-opinionated old professor” type. If I were, then I would have guessed that the most interesting part for you must have been: “We’re currently working on a study… e-mail as a medium for conveying our emotions.” But I’m convinced that you’re most interested in this: “And I suspect that you write like somebody younger than you are.” Now you’re forced to ask yourself: “What makes him think he’s right?” And then: “How old does he actually think I am?” Am I right?

Eight minutes later

Re:

You’re one hell of a guy, Leo Leike!!! And now you can come up with some good reasons why I must be older than my writing makes me sound. Or, more to the point: how old is my writing? How old am I? And why? If you manage to solve this puzzle, you can tell me what my shoe size is too.

All the best,

Emmi

P.S. I’m enjoying this.

Forty-five minutes later

Re:

You write like a thirty-year-old. But you’re around forty, let’s say forty-two. What makes me think I’m right? A thirty-year-old doesn’t read Like on a regular basis. The average age of Like subscribers is around fifty. But you’re younger, because you work with websites, so you could be thirty or even a fair bit younger than that. On the other hand, no thirty-year-old sends a mass e-mail to clients to wish them “Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year”. And finally, your name is Emmi, i.e. Emma. I know three Emmas and they’re all over forty. Thirty-year-olds aren’t called Emma. It’s only people under twenty who are Emmas again. But you’re not under twenty, or you’d use words like “cool”, “wicked”, “lush”, “totally”, “awesome” and suchlike. And you wouldn’t begin sentences with capital letters, or write in full sentences either. But most importantly, you’d have better things to do than chat with a humourless man who might or might not be a professor and be interested in how young or old he thinks you might be. Another thing about “Emmi”: if your name were Emma, and you wrote as if you were younger – perhaps because you felt much younger than you were – you wouldn’t call yourself Emma, but Emmi. In short, my dear Emmi Rothner, you write as if you’re thirty, but in fact you’re forty-two. Am I right? Your shoe size is 36. You’re petite, bubbly, and you’ve got short, dark hair. And you effervesce when you speak. Am I right?

Good evening,

Leo Leike

The next day

Subject: ???

Dear Ms Rothner,

Have I offended you? Look, I don’t know you. How am I supposed to know how old you are? Maybe you’re twenty, maybe you’re sixty. Perhaps you’re 1.9 m tall and weigh 100 kilos. Maybe your shoe size is 46 and you’ve only got three pairs of shoes, made to measure. And to afford a fourth pair you have to cancel your Like subscription and keep your website customers happy by sending them Christmas greetings. So please don’t be angry with me. I had fun guessing; I have a hazy picture of you, and I’ve tried to convey this to you in exaggerated detail. I really didn’t mean to offend you.

Best wishes,

Leo Leike

Two hours later

Re:

Dear “Professor”,

I do like your humour, it’s only a semitone away from chronic seriousness, which is why it sounds particularly skewed!! I’ll write again tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it already!

Emmi

Seven minutes later

Re:

Thanks! Now I can sleep peacefully.

Leo

The next day

Subject: Getting to know each other

Dear Leo,

I’m going to leave out the “Leike” from now on. And you can leave out the “Rothner”. I thoroughly enjoyed the e-mails you sent yesterday – I read them several times. I want to pay you a compliment. Isn’t it exciting that you can get involved with someone you don’t know, someone you’ve never set eyes on and probably never will, someone you expect nothing from, of whom you can’t be sure that you’ll ever get anything halfway adequate in return? That’s very unusual in a man, and that’s what I like about you. I just wanted to tell you that up front.

Now, a few points:

1) You have a full-on Christmas-round-robin-e-mail psychosis! Where did you pick that up? You obviously find it deeply offensive when people say “Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year”. Fine, I promise I’ll never, ever say it again. I’m amazed, by the way, that you think you can deduce my age from the way I say “Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year”. If I’d said “Merry Xmas and a Cool Yule”, would you have thought I was ten years younger?

2) I’m sorry, Leo the Language Psychologist, but I find it a touch unworldly and fuddy-duddyish of you to say that a woman must be over twenty if she doesn’t use words like “cool”, “lush” and “awesome”. Not that I’m desperate to write in a way that might make you think I was under twenty, but can you really tell?

3) You say that I write like a thirty-year-old, but that thirty-year-olds don’t read Like. Well, let me explain: the Like subscription was a present for my mother. So what now? Am I now younger than I write?

I’m going to have to leave you to ponder this. I’m afraid I’ve got an appointment (Confirmation class? Dance lesson? Manicure? Coffee morning? You choose.)

Have a nice day, Leo!

Emmi

Three minutes later

Subject: (no subject)

One other thing: you weren’t so far off with the shoe size. I’m a 37. (But no shoes please, I have all the ones I need.)

Three days later

Subject: Something’s missing

Dear Leo,

If you don’t write to me for three days 1) I begin to wonder why, 2) I feel that something’s missing. Neither is pleasant. Please rectify!

Emmi

The next day

Subject: Sent at last!

Dear Emmi,

In my defence I confess I’ve written to you every day, it’s just that I haven’t sent the e-mails. In fact I’ve deleted all of them. I’ve reached an awkward stage in our correspondence, you see. She – this Emmi with size 37 shoes – is beginning to interest me more than befits the nature of our correspondence. And if she – this Emmi with size 37 shoes – says from the outset, “We will probably never meet each other”, then of course she’s right and I agree with her. I think it’s extremely wise to work on the assumption that we will never meet in person. After all, I don’t want our correspondence to descend to the level of chatroom drivel or lonely hearts banter.

O.K., now I’m going to press send, so that she – this Emmi with size 37 shoes – has at least one message from me in her inbox. (The message isn’t that exciting; it’s only a fraction of what I wanted to write.)

All the best,

Leo

Twenty-three minutes later

Re:

Aha, so Leo the Language Psychologist doesn’t want to know what Emmi with size 37 shoes looks like? I don’t believe you, Leo! If a man’s talking to a woman and can’t see her, of course he wants to know what she looks like. Not only that, but he wants to know straightaway. Because then he’ll know whether he wants to keep on talking to her. Isn’t that the case?

All best,

Emmi, size 37

Eight minutes later

Re:

That was more hyperventilated than written, am I right? I don’t need to know what you look like if you give me answers like that, Emmi. In any case I have you here before me. And I don’t need the psychology of linguistics to achieve that.

Leo

Twenty-one minutes later

Re:

You’re wrong, Mr Leo. I was as cool as a cucumber when I wrote that. You should see me when I am hyperventilating. By the way, you seem not to be answering my questions on principle, am I right? (And what do you look like when you say “Am I right?”) But if I may come back to this morning’s e-mail salvo, nothing seems to make any sense. What I think you’re saying is:

1) You write me e-mails and then don’t send them.

2) You’re gradually getting more interested in me “than befits the nature of our correspondence”. So what does that mean? Is our correspondence not purely based on our mutual interest in complete strangers?

3) You think it’s wise – no, you even think it’s “extremely wise” that we’ll never meet. I envy you your passionate devotion to wisdom.

4) You don’t want chatroom drivel. So what do you want? What should we be talking about to prevent you from becoming more interested in me than befits the “nature” of our correspondence?

5) And finally – given the likelihood that you won’t answer any of these questions – you said that your last e-mail contained only a fraction of what you wanted to write. Please feel free to write the rest, and I’ll look forward to every word! Because I like reading your e-mails, dear Leo.

Emmi

Five minutes later

Re:

Dear Emmi,

It wouldn’t be you without your 1) 2) 3) lists, would it? More tomorrow. Have a nice evening.

Leo

The next day

Subject: (no subject)

Dear Emmi,

Has it occurred to you that we know absolutely nothing about each other? We’re creating virtual characters, piecing together identikit fantasies of each other. We’re asking questions that are never answered, and that’s part of the charm. We’re toying with and endlessly provoking each other’s curiosity by refusing point-blank to satisfy it. We’re trying to read between the lines, and soon I expect we’ll be trying to read between the letters. Each of us is trying desperately to build up an accurate picture of the other. And at the same time we’re being meticulous in not giving away anything fundamental about ourselves. What does “anything fundamental” mean – it means betraying nothing at all; we’ve yet to say anything about our lives, about our everyday existences, about the things that might be important to us.

We’re communicating in a vacuum. We’ve politely told each other what line of work we’re in. Theoretically you’d be prepared to design a nice website for me, and in return I’d draw up some (mediocre) linguistic psychograms for you. That’s the sum of it. Thanks to some crummy magazine we know that we live in the same city. But what else? Nothing. There are no people around us. We don’t inhabit anywhere. We don’t have ages. We don’t have faces. We make no distinction between day and night. We don’t live in any particular time. All we’ve got is our computer screens – for our eyes only – and we share a hobby: we’re both interested in a complete stranger. Brilliant!

Now I’ll make my confession: I’m seriously interested in you, dear Emmi! I don’t know why, but I do know that there is a clear reason for it. I also know how ridiculous my interest is. It would never survive a meeting, no matter what you look like, how old you are, how much of your considerable e-mail charm you could bring to a possible encounter, and how much of your on-screen wit you’ve also got in your vocal chords, your pupils, the corners of your mouth and your nostrils. I have a suspicion that this serious interest is nourished by my inbox alone. Any attempt to liberate it from there would no doubt fail miserably.

Now for the key question, dear Emmi: Do you want me to keep writing to you? (This time I’d be more than grateful for a straight answer.)

My very best wishes,

Leo

Twenty-one minutes later

Re:

Dear Leo,

That was a long one! You must be having a day off. Or does this count as work? Will you get time off in lieu? Can you offset it against tax? I’ve got a sharp tongue, I know. But only when I write. And only when I’m not sure of something. Leo, you make me feel unsure. But there’s one thing I am sure of: yes, I want you to keep sending me e-mails, if you wouldn’t mind. And if I’ve not made that clear enough, I’ll say it again: YES PLEASE, MORE E-MAILS FROM LEO! MORE E-MAILS FROM LEO! MORE E-MAILS FROM LEO, PLEASE! I’M ADDICTED TO E-MAILS FROM LEO!

And now you have to tell me the truth: how can you know that there’s a “clear reason” for your interest in me without knowing what it is? You see, I don’t understand what you mean, but it sounds thrilling.

All the very very best (and another very for luck), Emmi

P.S. Your last e-mail was fabulous! Totally lacking in humour, but fabulous!

Two days later

Subject: Happy Christmas

Do you know what, dear Emmi? Today I’m going to break with convention and tell you something about my life. Her name was Marlene. Three months ago I’d have written: Her name is Marlene. After five years of a present without a future I’ve finally ended up in the imperfect. I’ll spare you the details of our relationship. The best thing about it was always starting from scratch again. Because the two of us loved starting from scratch, we did it every few months. For both of us, the other was “the great love” of our lives. Never when we were together; only when we were trying to get back together again.

This autumn it finally came to a head: she found somebody else, someone she could imagine getting together with, and also staying together with. (Even though he’s a pilot for a Spanish airline – I mean, can you believe it!?) When I found out, all of a sudden I was surer than ever that Marlene was “the one” and I had to do everything to avoid losing her for good.

For an entire week I did do everything I could, and a little more besides. (Again, I’ll spare you the details.) And she was actually on the verge of giving me, or rather us, one last chance: Christmas in Paris. I’d planned – go on, have a laugh, Emmi – to propose to her there. What a complete prat! She said she would just wait for the “Spaniard” to fly in so she could tell him about me and Paris. She owed him that, she said. I felt queasy – why am I saying “queasy”? I felt like I had a Spanish airbus in my guts when I thought about Marlene and that pilot. That was on 19 December.

That afternoon I got – no, not even a phone call; I got a sickening e-mail from her: “Leo, it won’t work. I can’t do it. Paris would be just another lie. Please forgive me!” Or something like that (No, not “like that”, those were her actual words.) I wrote back immediately: “Marlene, I want to marry you! I really mean it. I want to be with you for ever.

I know I can make it work. We belong together. Give me one last chance. Let’s talk about everything in Paris, please! Please come to Paris!”

Well, then I waited. One hour, two hours, three hours. During which I talked to her deaf-mute voice-mail every twenty minutes, read old love letters I’d saved on my computer, scrolled through the digital photos of us as a couple, taken on those countless trips when we kept getting back together. And then I stared at the screen as if possessed. My life with Marlene – my survival, as I saw it then – depended on that short, soulless ping that heralds the arrival of a new message; on that tiny, ridiculous envelope in the taskbar.

I set myself a 9.00 p.m. deadline for this torment. If Marlene had not e-mailed me by then, Paris – and with it our last chance – would be gone. It was 8.57. And then, all of a sudden, a ping, a tiny envelope (a power surge, a cardiac arrest), a message. I shut my eyes for a few seconds to gather the pathetic remains of my positive thoughts, and then focused on the message I’d been longing for: Marlene’s consent, the two of us in Paris, the rest of our lives together. I opened my eyes and clicked on the message. And what did I find? “Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, from Emmi Rothner.”

Hence my “full-on Christmas-round-robin-e-mail psychosis”.

Have a nice evening,

Leo

Two hours later

Re:

Dear Leo,

What a great story! Particularly impressed by the punchline. I’m almost proud to have played such a fateful role. I hope you realize that you’ve betrayed something extraordinary to me, your “virtual character”, your “identikit fantasy”. That’s what you might call “private life à la Leo the Language Psychologist”. I’m far too tired to give you a useful answer today. But tomorrow you’ll receive a proper analysis, if that’s O.K. with you. You know, with 1.), 2.), 3.) etc. Sleep well, have some meaningful dreams. But I suggest you don’t dream about Marlene.

Emmi

The following day

Subject: Marlene

Good morning Leo.

Do you mind if I get a bit tougher with you?

1) So you’re a man who’s only interested in a woman at the beginning and at the end: when he wants to get her, and just before he’s about to lose her for good. You find the time in between – which some people call “being together” – either too boring or too stressful, or both. Am I right?

2) By some miracle you managed to evade marriage (this time), but you’d be quite prepared to saunter up the aisle to get a Spanish airline pilot out of your soon-to-be-exgirlfriend’s bed. That testifies to something of a lack of respect for the wedding vows. Am I right?

3) You’ve been married before. Am I right?

4) I can almost picture you wallowing in self-pity, sitting there reading old love letters and looking at photos instead of doing something that might make a woman believe you were capable of anything approaching love, or that you had even the slightest desire for something more permanent.

5) And then MY fateful e-mail comes flying into your inbox of destiny. It’s almost as if I chose exactly the right time to say what Marlene must have had on the tip of her tongue for years: LEO, IT’S OVER, BECAUSE IT NEVER EVEN STARTED! Or to put it more subtly and poetically, more atmospherically: “Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, from Emmi Rothner.”

6) But then, my dear Leo, you do something pretty special. You reply to Marlene. You congratulate her on her decision. You say: YOU’RE RIGHT, MARLENE, IT’S OVER, BECAUSE IT NEVER EVEN STARTED! Or, in other words, more subtly, more energetically and forcefully, you say: “Dear Emmi Rothner, we don’t know each other in the slightest, but I’d like to thank you for your warm and highly original round-robin e-mail! One thing you should know: I just adore round-robin e-mails. Rgds, Leo Leike.” – You’re a phenomenally good loser, dear Leo – classy and magnanimous.

7) My final question: Do you want me to go on writing?

Have a good day,

Emmi

Two hours later

Re:

Hello, Emmi!

Re: 1) It’s not my fault that I remind you of some man who has obviously let you down – quite stylishly even, the way you describe it. Please do not presume to know me better than you can! (You cannot know me at all.)

Re: 2) As far as my most recent evasion of the wedding vows is concerned, I can only think of myself as a “complete prat”. But sarcastic, sanctimonious Emmi with her size 37 shoes goes one better to save the honour of marriage, presumably with eyes tightly shut while drooling at the mouth.

Re: 3) Sorry, but I’ve never been married! You? Several times, am I right?

Re: 4) Here’s that man from point 1 again, a man who prefers to read old love letters to proving his undying love for you. Perhaps there have been many of those men in your life.

Re: 5) Yes, at that very moment when your Christmas greeting flew into in my inbox I felt as if I’d lost Marlene.

Re: 6) I replied to you back then to distract myself from my failure, Emmi. And I still consider my correspondence with you to be part of my Marlene therapy.

Re: 7) Yes, by all means feel free to write to me! Type away all your frustration with men, from the depths of your soul. Unleash all your self-righteousness, cynicism and gloating. If you feel better afterwards, my inbox has done its job. If you don’t, then just treat yourself (or your mother) to another Like subscription and unsubscribe from “Leike”.

I hope you have a nice Monday afternoon,

Leo

Eleven minutes later

Re:

Ooops! Now I’ve upset you. I didn’t mean to, really. I thought you’d be able to take it, but I was expecting too much. I’m going to get me to a nunnery. Night night, Emmi

P.S. Re: Point 3: I’ve been married. And I still am!