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Each night, for five nights, before I went to bed, I imagined him. I imagined exactly what he
would look like. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and dark skin. He was tall—he had to be over
6-foot. I imagined his face with full lips, high cheekbones, and a long neck like the fashion
model, Iman. His feet would match his hands—all equally large. I imagined the way his skin
would feel—smooth like the leftover silver ornament that was sitting on the counter of “The
Market Restaurant” in Beverly Hills where I was eating a veggie burger. I wanted to see him and
not smell him so I imagined he would be odorless—his body, breath, and hair. I imagined his
abdomen. It would be so rock solid that the one-two punches I learned in kickboxing class could
not penetrate him. I saw his limbs. They were long, but not lanky, and I imagined that his legs
could extend to and touch the end of my king-size bed. I saw him on Sunday, Monday, Tuesday,
Wednesday, and Thursday. On Friday, I told my girlfriend, “I’ve decided I only care about looks
in my next partner. I want a gorgeous, gorgeous man. And he must be dark… and my age.” I
continued, “I’m ready to move on. I cannot cry anymore. My Botox will not allow me.”
My girlfriend and I finished our meal at Sabor, the only Colombian restaurant in our town.
Before leaving, we said good-bye to the wedding party. The bride and groom came over and
kissed us on each cheek. Along with our delicious Colombian food, we enjoyed the Mariachi’s
who sang love songs to the budding couple as well as the dancing and rhythmic clapping from
the other happy guests. Sabrina and I, though uninvited guests to the actual wedding became part
of the wedding because we were sitting in the space where the festivities were happening. After
Sabrina and I paid our bill, we agreed we to walk off our spinach and mushroom empanadas. We
drove and parked our car at the university and in the dark and in high heels we strolled through
the campus for two hours. Both of us wore jeans that night. In all the years we had known each
other (nearly sixteen) neither of us had ever worn jeans when we were together or apart. This
was a historical night. Sabrina looked over at me, “You look real good in jeans.” I had a secret
though. I wasn’t wearing just any pair of jeans. I was wearing Kymoro Body Shaping Jeans.
During one of my many fits with insomnia and late night/early morning TV watching, I had
ordered them through one of their infamous commercials. Supposedly Kymoro had a special
pleat that lifted and shaped the butt and a special technology for slimming the thighs. So, it was
no surprise that Sabrina admired my perky new shape. I could have told her the truth, but instead
I simply responded with a “Thank you”.
After our walk, Sabrina brought me home to an empty house. It was the holidays and my soon to
be ex-husband had taken our two boys to LA to visit his uncle and left me alone in our large and
lonely house (that would soon become only mine). After Sabrina dropped me off at my front
door, I unlocked it knowing I was safe because my dog, Li’lGuy, was waiting for me quietly as I
arrived. After entering the house, I went directly to my office, turned on the light, and opened my
laptop computer. And just as suddenly, an intense and inescapable loneliness and panic swept
over me and I became instantly desperate for companionship. I remembered a month back a
writer friend of mine suggested I check out the online dating site “OKCupid.” With hesitation,
but also with a deep longing for a man, I Goggled the site and subsequently input my basic
information, and answered silly questions such as, “Do you have a car?” I then created my
username, SuperAnaisNin, and although I knew most of my audience would not be familiar with
the name, and thus the real meaning behind my name, I didn’t care. On this night, I wanted to
fully embody Anaïs Nin’s mysterious and transverse ways. I wanted to live freely and carefree
like she had done so elegantly in her life. After completing my profile, I clicked on the icon
“online now” and the screen before me displayed several pages of members that were currently
available for IM’ing. I scrolled through three pages of faces when I came across a
familiar-looking face. Initially I scrolled right past the face, then after realizing I may know this
person, I retraced my online steps by hitting the backspace button several times.
I did in fact know this person. I went to high school with him and I had only seen him three
weeks prior at our twenty-year high school reunion. Although we knew of each other in high
school, we were not terribly friendly during our four-year stint. We were both part of the same
“group,” the popular one, however while he remained popular, I flew away by sophomore year to
become an independent… of sorts.
At the reunion, we spoke briefly. We stood outside of The Hut, the location of our reunion (a bar
on the artsy street in our town), and he told me he was a football coach for one of our local high
schools. I told him I had two boys, one of whom was also a football player for a rival freshman
team. We said good-bye that night, and I never thought of him again. I barely noticed him that
night, though I do remember telling my best friend I thought Ty was cute. I was still dazed the
night of the reunion. It had only been three days since my husband of seventeen years told me
out of the blue that he wanted a divorce. His reasoning, “I am turning forty and I want to spend
the next twenty years carefree. I do not want to be married anymore.” And as an aside, he added,
“I do not love you anymore.” I was clearly still recovering from this most clichéd and fearful
moment when I met Ty on the first night of our reunion.
I looked at my computer screen again and decided to click on the familiar face. I clicked again
using the IM function. “Hi,” I wrote.
“Hi,” he wrote back.
We continued chatting but Ty had no idea who I was or that I knew him. I purposefully
suspended my identity. After all, I was online. I was feeling a little feisty, a little Nin-like, and
besides I wanted to test him a little. I was fishing, according to another dating site, PlentyOfFish,
and as such I was curious as to what sort of scraps or treasures I could drudge up from his sea.
After much back-and-forth banter, we finally got to a point in our conversation where he insisted
that I reveal myself. Because my only intent of joining the site was to be a voyeur, I did not post
a picture so Ty had no idea what I looked like or who I was. And besides, I wasn’t even divorced
yet. How would it have looked if the whole city of Tucson knew I was getting divorced before
my mother even knew? As the minutes passed, Ty became increasingly persistent in wanting to
view me, but each time he asked me for a photo, I came up with a new excuse, such as “I’m too
pretty for photos.” Or “Oops, my uploader isn’t working.” Or “My photo file is too large.” Alas,
he threatened to disconnect. My excuses were no longer working. So, I began using a new tactic
to keep him online and connected with our chat. I slowly started slipping in mysterious hints that
I knew him. I wrote, “You don’t need to see a photo of me because you already know what I look
like.”
“Huh?” He responded confused.
His username was “BullDog” but I sent another IM stating his real name, “Ty, I know
you.”
“What?” He questioned hesitantly. He continued, “How do you know me?”
I began giving him what I thought to be subtle hints about myself. “I’m short.” I wrote. “I
went to high school with you.”
“Are you Tatiana? Tatiana Mikeloviz?
I was found out.
That night Ty came to my place. He was exactly what I had imagined. He was tall, dark,
and handsome. He had long legs, long arms, and a long svelte neck. When he took off his shirt, I could almost see a twelve-pack, and when I got close to his body, I couldn’t smell a thing.

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