Enticed by desolation, he found himself sitting in front of his laptop, going through the junk folder and adding each sender of every spam letter as a contact. He was once comfortable being alone, but over the past day, a feeling of loneliness overwhelmed his abilities to exist in solitude. Never had he sought such attention since he became widowed twelve years ago. He had reached out to his former employers, distant family members, and a few friends, but no one responded. No one ever responded, and on that day, he felt so lost that when he talked out loud to himself, all he heard were the drips from the kitchen faucet. 

Why didn’t anyone respond to him? He knocked on the neighbor’s door, once, to see if the lady—close to his own age—would be willing to respond to one of his emails. All he saw was a hand reach through the gap of the curtains of the front window, drawing them closed before tiptoeing away, making the taunting, transparent drapes ghostly and alive. There was an emptiness that filled his stomach when he looked around and felt alone in the world.

He could talk; he could always talk, whether it was going to a coffee shop or the grocery store, but that wasn’t what he was looking for—he wanted an immediate response by email. He ventured outside and walked along the sidewalks that sunny and clear morning, asking some of the pedestrians—acquaintances and strangers alike—whether they’d want to send him an email, handing out pieces of paper, like business cards, with his address scribbled on it. Some turned the other way—some smiled and kept walking, while others politely took the ripped pieces of ruled paper. 

He walked into the nearby Albertsons, randomly bought twelve oranges, and asked the cashier, an elderly lady herself who had been working there for as long as he visited the store for twenty-five years, if she would like to exchange emails. Though they knew each other—it wasn’t like that, and trying not to come off as too rude, declined the invitation, telling him that the oranges were on her. Strange request as they were, when he asked anyone who would stop and listen to his question, but to him it all made sense, for in his head, all he could hear was his wife’s words, written in an imaginary email, telling him to reach out to those around him.

His late wife was great with responding so quickly. Sometimes, he would sit in the living room and she would be in the bedroom or the sun room, and he would send her emails, and she would reply right away. It’s the sound of the notifications he missed most. When she passed away, for the following eleven months, he continued to send her emails—just in case, just in case there was that sound that let him know that he existed. He would imagine her voice—such words written with comfort and ease that made him feel loved in a world where it was easy to be lost after living such a life of love.

When he returned home later in the morning, he quickly looked at the garden in the front yard, messy and unkempt, much like his hair—the little that he had left. His wife was there once, perhaps a butterfly. That day, as he sat in front of his laptop, no longer satisfied with being alone, but now lonely, he searched for all the ways to receive an email. He started to buy random items online, just to receive the confirmation reply and he subscribed to newsletters for stores so that he could get an update about deals as quickly and incessantly as possible. Enough wasn’t enough for him though, and soon he responded to all of the spam emails, greeting each and every one of them with exclamation marks and asking questions, in hope of an email.

There was one immediate response and he looked around as he was witnessing a magic trick or a spectacular event. A sip of his coffee and a breath before he read it with pleasant anticipation. 

This letter was seemingly from a barrister in Nigeria—he was amazed with the posh language, clear and pristine and direct and perhaps, somewhat emotional, mentioning that he was the recipient of what would be the equivalent to 250 million dollars. He knew better—of course he knew better, but that didn’t matter to him. It was more important to receive a reply, ideally, a continued conversation, and as he read the email over and over, the words became his late wife’s voice, a soft tone, almost like she was caressing his face with her palms as she used to do just before turning off the bedside lamps.

He responded.

He waited. He sipped his Folgers and clasped his fingers as if he was in prayer, knees rocking up and down.

He waited. He waited as he continued to read all of the other spam messages. They kept coming in after he had fervently worked on allowing all of them to go straight to the inbox, adjusting all of the settings and keeping the filters at the most minimum level.

An important ding—the name he recognized, and he opened it with a smile. His good friend asked for all of his banking information, and he opened up another window to access the Google document which contained all of his information, a living will, perhaps for whomever would take over after he himself was gone, just like his wife.

Slowly and thoughtfully, he typed all of the information the barrister needed, reminding him of when he would send letters to his wife. He knew he was going to lose everything, but it didn’t mean much to him; it was worth the rush of this particular communication and the anticipation of hearing back from him. Would he hear back from him after the transaction? It didn’t matter, he didn’t care. He got what he wanted, just for that day, and he clicked the send button before heading to the recliner and pushing the seat back. Just as he closed his eyes, he heard his wife’s voice—sounding much like a lullaby, singing him to sleep, and there was one more ding.

About the Author:

Shome Dasgupta is the author of The Seagull And The Urn (HarperCollins India), and most recently, the novels The Muu-Antiques (Malarkey Books) and Tentacles Numbing (Thirty West), a prose collection, Histories Of Memories (Belle Point Press), and a poetry collection, Iron Oxide (Assure Press). His writing has appeared in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, New Orleans Review, Jabberwock Review, American Book Review, Arkansas Review, Magma Poetry, and elsewhere. He is the series editor of The Wigleaf Top 50. He lives in Lafayette, LA and can be found at www.shomedome.com and @laughingyeti.

*Feature image by Thanhy Nguyen on Unsplash