Dave wedges a finger under his shirt collar to relieve his neck, which has grown warm and a little damp. He looks at the email again. I have an answer. I want you to know. Yes, it’s a mistake; she is writing to another Dave she knows. A Dave, he suddenly thinks, with whom she has bothered to keep in touch. He cannot help feeling a little peeved that the only time he hears from this girl in three years is by accident. In fact, he’s surprised that he’s peeved at all; it isn’t that her lack of correspondence wounded him to the core and made him cynical about women or humanity or anything like that. He doesn’t even recall having found her that attractive; she was bony and strange, her eyes too far apart. But something about her had appealed to him that night, and afterwards he’d been a bit hopeful, then disappointed when she hadn’t written back.

He tells himself he shouldn’t be so affected by this, and reminds himself of all the positive things in his life: his boss acknowledges his talent and expresses confidence in him, and he’ll be marrying Mayling in the spring—beautiful, accomplished Mayling, who works for an important U.S. law firm and doesn’t mind his cheerful ignorance about subjects that inspire in her a diligent curiosity, such as nature, the arts, and European history. Also, the builders finally completed work on the kitchen last weekend, all open-plan cinderblock and brushed chrome. He shouldn’t be affected by this email. But it is a painful reminder that he once offered himself to this girl and his efforts had not even merited a rejection; he had simply been ignored. And he can’t help but allow himself to wonder, just a little, what it is that she has spent all night thinking about.

An hour later:

10-02-02

7:00 pm (GMT +7)