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Drawing me out of my thoughts, the computer beep-booted in a very specific and familiar way, instantly reminding of submarine sonar.
It wasn’t until I saw the signature, there was only one person I knew who signed their texts, that things came into focus.
It was the first direct, personal contact I’d had with Hugo since he sent my acceptance. There were notes on the assignments he gave me, but they were more instructions than communications. They might as well have been sent by a bot for all the emotion they contained.
My mind still went back to that first email though. As well as the photograph. I’d found more after a lot of looking. Even so, the black and white shot was still my favorite. It was like that one revealed the most of his soul. To think, there were once people who thought cameras stole them.
I was absolutely into him and we’d never actually met. One of the oddest conundrums of the digital revolution. Socializing from a distance. A notion my parents would have thought mad, but where really did correspondence start and socialization end?
People socialize on the phone. Granted, it was usually people they already knew, but that just went to demonstrate that the phone was the tool. The thing that established contact. Were computers really so different? Particularly with the voice and video capabilities they had? Did not sharing a physical space really preclude the possibility of ‘proper’ socializing? Or did the traditionalists just have bug up their butt about how things had changed since their day?
True, Hugo and I had only ever communicated through text, though that was enough. At least enough to tell me I wanted more.
I tapped out a reply as fast as I could. It was, no doubt, filled with mistakes. One that probably would have embarrassed me under most other circumstances. I was an editor after all. Still, if felt imperative that I reply as soon as possible. Let him know that I was there.
He responded within seconds. Nothing too serious. Just asking how the book was going and if I’d looked it. He could have just been trying to get a feel for the kind of thing I liked. Particularly as he’d likely figured out I’d been shot-gunning my assignment requests. He might just have been trying to get a feel for the real me.
Me: It’s great! I’ve barely remembered to eat.
Hugo: Glad to hear it. I thought it might be something you’d like.
Me: How so?
Probably too pointed a question to what could have been a perfectly innocent statement, but I wanted to know.
Hugo: Just a feeling.
It was a little eerie, but somehow I liked it.
Me: Well, you got that right, at least.
Hugo: Glad to hear it.
Me: Is this the first time?
Hugo: For what?
Me: That you’ve talked to someone. Not about work. This isn’t about work, is it?
Hugo: Right, you’ve caught me. Yes, to both. This wasn’t about work. Not entirely, and no, I haven’t really talked causally to anyone in a while. Seems like I’m doing a decent job.
Me: You are, actually. Better than decent.
My hand was already rubbing my pussy through my pants. I knew it was unprofessional, but that was the advantage of working remotely, I guess.
I couldn’t really explain it. Nothing particularly arousing had been said, there was just something about talking to him. Even distantly, even over text, it had made me really wet. Probably because I kept thinking about that sexy photo of him.
He probably didn’t look like that anymore but that was the image I had in my head. The 25-year-old him. Looking out at the world, not with defiance so much as an interested amusement. Like he was in on a joke he wasn’t telling.
Me: I’m still curious how you knew.
Even though typing one-handed, the other quite occupied down the front of my pants, I was still pretty adept at it.
Hugo: Promise not to laugh?
Me: No, laughing is an involuntary reflex. Besides, we’re at a safe distance. I promise not to do the digital version. How about that?
Hugo: Deal. The thing is, you remind me of a character from a book I like. She’s My Witch by Stewart Home.
Me: I don’t think I’ve heard of that.
Hugo: Wouldn’t be surprised. He’s kind of underground. Home is actually trained as an art historian and artists. Has lots of non-fiction books and installation pieces. Sometime in the 90s he got into writing novels and has mostly done that since. Some really weird, next level stuff. Anyway, long story short, you’re younger than the character I’m thinking of, and seem more stable, but there is a similarity in spirit. She could be your sister. Spiritually anyway.
Me: I don’t know if I should be flattered or offended, especially considering you’ve never actually even met me.
Hugo: Flattered, for the most part.
