“Button”? I do have a middle name, but that definitely isn’t it. As for my supposed hero worship of you, I am sorry to say that you have made a mistake. The truth is, I am occasionally mesmerized by how outrageously ginger you are. I do hope that doesn’t hurt your feelings.

The list has nothing to do with “fantasies.” I told you before, it’s about building life experience. I suppose I should tell you that I was almost hit by a car. When my life flashed before my eyes, it was rather uneventful, so I’m taking the necessary steps to rectify that. It’s really quite simple.

I think your definition of a hipster is roughly a decade behind the times, which frankly makes you even more of a hipster. Read my words now, very carefully: You. Need. An. Instagram. Account.

I’m so glad we had that talk.

I’m also very happy to hear that you don’t ever plan on trying to take my laptop, because, while I do spend a lot of time indoors, the length of a murder sentence might be a touch too long, and prison beds would absolutely ruin my back.

Yours, supposedly,

Chloe

 

Dear Chloe,

(Emails are internet letters, so my way is the right way. You’re welcome.)

“Button” because you always seem to be wearing them, and I don’t know where you find all those old-fashioned clothes. What’s your actual middle name? I bet it’s something ridiculous, like Fenella.

You should be really proud of yourself, by the way. It takes a lot of guts to admit to a man that you’re mesmerized by his amazing hair, and I appreciate the compliment. I promise not to bring it up too often. Once a day, tops.

That’s rough about the whole “near death” thing. Really, it is. But—and I’m not trying to tell you what to do here—but don’t you think, if your life ever flashes before your eyes again, you should remember all the shit you enjoyed? Rather than the stuff other people care about? I don’t know. Just a thought.

As for the Instagram account … you really are so damn bossy. I thought maybe the bossiness was a case of speaking before you think, but you’re typing these emails out. You’re reading them back to yourself. And you’re still so fucking bossy. Incredible. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I’m not even complaining anymore. I respect it.

Still not getting an Instagram account, though.

Yours SINCERELY,

Red

 

Dear Red,

Buttons add a certain dignity to an outfit, in my opinion. And I’ll have you know that my clothes are actually retro, and they are very stylish.

My middle name is Sophia. I suppose it has a similar ring to Fenella, but it’s not quite as ridiculous. Sorry to disappoint.

Perhaps I should’ve been clearer on the hair—mesmerized is such an ambiguous word. What I meant to say was, is it true that gingers have no souls?

The list is really not up for debate, since it has already been immortalized, and since I am committed, and also because I’m right and you’re wrong. I trust you understand.

I’m starting to think that your aversion to Instagram hides some deeper-seated issue. You mentioned it being where self-esteem goes to die. I hope you know I’m not suggesting that you use it for selfies and the like, though really, there is no need to be shy. You generally look passable.

Yours sincerely (this is beyond silly),

Chloe

 

Dear Chloe,

Just so you know, I like your clothes. Not that I go around telling women about their clothes, like anyone cares, but I realized it sounded like I might not like them, and that isn’t accurate. I know you’re into accuracy. So. There we go.

Although I hate to break it to you about those buttons, Button—they’re more cute than dignified. Sorry.

Sophia isn’t even slightly ridiculous, but I forgive you. And, on the subject of my soul, the rumors are true. Don’t have one. So watch your step.

If you want to talk about my Instagram “issues,” I want to talk about how hung up you are on this list, and why. Does that sound like a fun conversation? Because I’m ready when you are.

Good to know I look passable, though. For a soulless ginger, and everything.

Yours sincerely (not silly),

Red

 

Dear Red,

Well, thank you. You are, of course, correct; I always look excellent. But if you actually intend to start calling me Button, I may sew one into your tongue.

While it would be very thrilling to think I rode on the back of a soulless demon’s motorbike, I feel compelled to point out that your behavior suggests you do in fact have a soul. For example, the way you let that very boring man from the third floor barge up to you whenever he likes to whine about the lightbulb that keeps going out. Clearly, he’s doing something questionable with that lightbulb. And yet, you keep replacing it.

I have seen sense and decided to abandon the Instagram topic. For now.

And, since I feel like you might have misunderstood, I wasn’t being serious before. You really do look fine. Nice, even. And you have lovely hair.

Yours sincerely,

Chloe

 

Dear Button,

I would love to see you try and sew something into my tongue. Really. I need to witness this in action. I’m sure you have a detailed plan. Are there drugs involved, a good whack over the head, or are you just planning to hold me down somehow?

I can’t really comment on a tenant’s behavior, but I can confirm that, considering the number of times I’ve been up to SOMEONE’S flat to change the same fucking lightbulb, I really must have a soul. An extra shiny, golden one.

And don’t worry; I knew you were joking. I was joking, too. But I might fish for compliments more often because you really snapped up that bait.

By the way—you’ve now spent the whole day emailing me, a client. That’s a lot of hours, really. So maybe we should talk about your list tomorrow, just to make sure everything’s even.

Yours,

Red

 

Dear Red,

You’ll soon get to see my violent plan in action, since you flagrantly ignored my button threat, and extorted compliments from me, too. Come over tomorrow when you finish work, and I will attack. Or show you the list. We’ll have to wait and see.

Yours,

Chloe

CHAPTER NINE

For some reason, emailing Red all day made Chloe alarmingly upbeat. Of course, the universe put a stop to that cheer the moment she went to bed by cursing her with a numb right foot that kept her awake all night.

Some people (like singularly unhelpful and clearly underqualified physical therapists, unsympathetic GPs, and that supremely irritating second cousin who ate all the stuffing at Christmas) assumed that a lack of feeling in certain body parts shouldn’t affect sleep at all. Her insomnia in such situations, they said, was something she could easily overcome. Chloe liked to remind those people that the human brain tended to keep track of all body parts, and was prone to panic when one of those parts went offline. Actually, what Chloe liked to do was imagine hitting those people with a brick. But she restrained herself to scathing explanations and used her brick-hitting fantasies to occupy her when sleep refused to come.

After hours of numb-footed hell, she dragged herself up to feed Smudge, who had spent the night beside her offering moral support. If she was going to get any work done today, she needed to feed herself, too. She should brew green tea for the antioxidants and make a healthy breakfast rich in whole grains for slow-release energy. However, since that sounded extremely difficult and her body ached as if she’d been stomped on by a god, she improvised by eating handfuls of Coco Pops straight from the box and gulping apple juice from the carton.