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There’s a long pause, and I feel a bit guilty for making this even more awkward than it needed to be.
He responds: I’ll wait until our second exchange to tell you about my impressive collection of axes.
I laugh and hope that was the appropriate response. It’s so hard to read tone from an email, but that definitely seemed like a sense of humor.
I’m suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to know what this man looks like, this stranger who I’ve expressed interest in marrying, for better or for worse.
Either way, I’ve felt better in the last month or so than I have since my mother died. It’s been lovely to have a possibility to look forward to, even if it’s also a frightening one.
Hunter
Another email comes through, and I relax in my chair and open it.
Would you send me a picture? It says.
I draw a deep breath, glad I wasn’t the first one to ask. I obviously want to see a picture of her, but for some reason, I feel like she might take offense to that as if the only thing that’s important to me is her looks.
I’d be lying, though, if I said it didn’t matter at all.
But as far as sending her one…
I send a message back: I’m not sure there are any pictures that aren’t many years out of date.
Somewhere on my computer, I have some old photos, at least. I start searching through folders, trying to find at least that much, when she responds.
Take a picture with your cell phone, dummy. Or don’t you have one?
I look down at my phone. I do, though it functions mainly through wi-fi, as the reception up here isn’t great. But yes, it takes pictures. I think all the photos on it currently are of things I wanted to remember at the store, and maybe one or two of Cocoa that time she got herself stuck in the fork of a split-trunked tree and couldn’t figure out how to kick herself loose.
Okay, I reply. Give me a minute.
I have a picture from last summer, she says. Maybe it will inspire you.
I hold my breath. I didn’t even have to ask. A minute later, another email appears. I open it and click on the attachment.
Sophia stares out at me from the screen.
She’s beautiful. Her hair is red and falls in curls around her face, her eyes a blue like the ocean. She’s wearing a delicate dress covered in peach wildflowers, with oceanside cliffs in the background. She smiles at the camera, but it’s a subtle smile, cautious, as if she has a secret she’d like to share, but is still debating the wisdom.
I have no idea why a girl like that could possibly need to be matched as a mail order bride.
Thank you, I respond.
Sophia
I stare at his response.
Thank you.
What is that supposed to mean? I went out on a limb and sent him a picture first, and all he has to say about it is thank you?
He must be disappointed. I sent him that picture because I think it’s the most flattering one I have taken by my Aunt Izzy last time she came to town for a visit. And what did I expect him to say if he isn’t attracted to me?
Thank you, I suppose, is sufficient.
Then again, he’s a wealthy man who hasn’t been able to find anyone to be with, even though he apparently has far more to offer and more time to pursue such
things than I do.
