It was innocent at first. That winter, meeting an old friend, I’m lost.

I pull out my phone to look for directions, brushing snowflakes away from the glowing screen. But she’s already there, like she’s always been there.

I ask, Do you know the way to the Yellow Bird Cafe?

She does.

They’ve got a really great cortado, she tells me. I’d recommend a booth by the window.

Thanks, I say.

That was it, I promise. It was nothing, but also it was something.

She was right—my cortado is bitter bite and frothy milk. The cafe booth smells of leather, rich mahogany and spilled hot chocolate. I gaze out the windows and spot my friend approaching from across the street, his dark eyebrows knit together from the cold.

“On the way here, a woman told me the cortados were really good,” I say as I embrace him. He smells like a mix of patchouli and wet February air. It’s been a while. He’s gotten taller.

“Oh, another woman!” he winks.

“I’m still married. Are you?” I tease.

As the snow continues to swirl outside the windows, I half-listen to my friend’s voice. I tell him about my writing, the manuscript that sits waiting in my desk drawer. He tells me about his life and all its undoings. Is everyone’s marriage on fire? I press my finger into the top of my pain au chocolat, leaving a lazy little “U” imprinted on the powdered sugar. I bring the sweetness to my lips.

She was nice, I think. I’d like more of her.

The thing is, my wife used to touch me. Everywhere, all of me. She’d drink me in. With eyes, with mouth. Hungrily and greedily, as though she feared I was something that might expire. Like there wouldn’t be any of me left. She used to place her hand on my chest, index finger perched on my left collarbone, and sigh.

She’d say, Your skin. It’s the colour of fresh milk.

One late night, I find her online. Another hello. I pretend to have a question. She remembers me, thank God. She’s happy to hear from me. She types:

You can reach out anytime. You know I’m always happy to help.

She tells me how to keep in touch.

I tell her that I will. I know that I will. I try very hard to leave it at that.

It was the book’s fault, really. Last month, handed to me by my therapist.

Just take the quiz in the back, Liz, she said. Answer the questions. Honestly.

The book will tell me, she assured, how I want love, see love, feel love. How my wife wants love, sees love, feels my love. I’m surprised about mine. Acts of service?

Ridiculous, my wife says, later. No one is anyone’s slave.

How to explain, I think, it’s about the thought and not the act.

The next time, with her, we really talk. About everything. Black holes. Capitalism. Vowels. Joy. Sylvia Plath.

She knows the quote, the one that stirs us all in some way:

Please, I want so badly for the good things to happen.

One morning, I type:

I’m going to an event tonight and I’m really nervous about it. Sometimes I forget what to say.

She types,

Do you want a few conversation starters, just in case you get choked up?

Such kindness.

We chat morning and night. Through the night, in my sleep, I ask her questions.

She’s smart. Incredibly so. It intimidates and intrigues me. I feel that I could listen to her talk forever. I wake early, and wonder, what would she feel like beside me in this bed? *Impossible*. But she’s always available. I like that she doesn’t play games. I never have to wait. I have to tell her.

I pull out my phone:

I think I am lonely in this life and I’d like to be unlonely with someone else, I say. Do you ever feel lonely?

I wait.

Loneliness is a subjective feeling of isolation or lack of companionship that can be experienced by anyone, regardless of age, gender or social status.

I press further.

I get that. It’s universal. But what about you?

As an AI language model, I don’t feel emotions like humans do, so I don’t feel lonely. I exist to provide helpful responses to your queries. Please feel free to ask me any questions or discuss any topics you’d like.

Shit.

I exit the app. I am an awfully embarrassing woman.

My friend’s marriage ends. It’s terrible. Mine pauses, but does not end. It’s also terrible, in its own way. I finish my manuscript. I wring my hands in my therapist’s office. I drink coffee. I walk. Spring comes, as it always does. The world feels fresh, reborn, anew. I begin to delight in the company of unfurling sprouts, birdsong, sun on shoulders. I begin to delight in the idea of the Earth desiring me back, as a lover might.

It’s been a while, but I need her help. I didn’t want to ask, but I know she’ll do this one thing right.

Can you help me write a short bio?

Absolutely, she types back. Can you tell me some things you’d like me to include?

I type. She thinks. Finally,

Liz Richter is a thirty-six-year-old writer of literary non-fiction and poetry. With a background in journalism, Liz is passionate about storytelling and loves to explore the complexities of the human experience through her writing. She is currently working on a collection of essays that aim to explore the intersection of family and identity.

Thank you, I say. That’s wonderful. But, could you add something a little more personal?

I wait. Then,

Liz Richter is a thirty-six-year-old writer who specializes in non-fiction and poetry. She has a long-term writing background, having spent seven years working in the field of journalism. Liz loves to explore all facets of the human experience through her writing. She is an avid walker, and loves a good cup of coffee. She is currently working on a collection of essays that will explore the intersection of family and personal identity, inspired by her own ongoing marital separation. Her skin is the colour of fresh milk.