THE GIRL YOU WANT

The humming of a fan. The click clack of a keyboard. Nolan Gaines has never kissed a girl. He was starting to think he never would. Every day getting older, fatter, stranded above a garage deep in the heart of suburbia, surrounded by old people, wine drunk moms and spoiled children. Alone. All alone. Already 26 and pushing 40. No career, no prospects, no property, not even a car. Getting older, getting fatter, shorter of breath and closer to death. 

Broke, ugly, little dick and I dunno how to fuck. Is an attic better than a basement?

Who could love a guy like me?

Who indeed? 

A chirpy little ping. An unread message notification. A glimmer of hope.

LIZA: What about me?

They met in an anime discord chat. She mentioned Digital Girl Yoko, his favourite series. They’d talked for hours. After a day of nervous fretting, he finally decided to send her a private message.

NOLAN: Hey. I liked talking to you.

How many had it been? Hundreds, thousands of women, across countless dating websites, forums, social media. Shouting “hey how’s it going” into the void, like a desperate horny SETI program. Always without response. Not even the dignity of a “fuck off creep.”

Until her. And she answered so quickly. It was almost like she was waiting for him.

LIZA: Hi! I liked talking to you too.

Nolan was relieved, then almost as quickly, plunged into a deeper panic attack. Now what? What did he say next? He stared blankly, paralyzed in the light of the screen like a deer on the highway. For several minutes he typed and deleted a series of responses. Lol. Me too. Yeah! She must’ve seen the “User is typing a message...” notification.

LIZA: You’re nervous aren’t you?

NOLAN: Maybe, kinda, haha.

LIZA: You’re worried you’ll scare me away. That you’ll say something awkward or weird. That there’s something wrong with you. One wrong move and I’ll see it, and go running for the hills.

NOLAN: ...Uh...wow. I don’t know what to say. How did you know?

LIZA: You think you’re the only guy like this? It’s a type. A type I know well.

NOLAN: A type?

LIZA: Yeah. My type :)

Nolan almost leapt back from the computer. He felt his chest tighten, something rise up his throat. It never happens like that. Why would it happen like that? Why would he be anybody’s type? Oh it was so much worse than rejection. Rejection was easy. Familiar. He didn’t know what to do now.

How am I gonna fuck this up? I’m gonna fuck this up.

Nolan paced nervously across his small one room apartment. He filled a glass of water, dumped it, then filled it again, cold as the tap could get it. He took a long sip and exhaled. 

“Ok so a girl I like says she likes me. Why do I feel like I’m dying?”

He returned to his computer, a new message waited.

LIZA: Done with your panic attack yet? :P

NOLAN: No.

LIZA: Don’t worry. I already like you, neurotic and nerdy and all. There’s nothing to worry about. It’s good news, right? Good things can happen!

NOLAN: “eah. Ok. Yeah. I like you too. A lot. Just didn’t think I was that lucky.

LIZA: You’re more lucky than you know ;)

NOLAN: So what now?

And so it began. The romance of the ages. As his fear subsided, Nolan’s heart filled with joy. Even more than before, he lived his life in his room, but with her it didn’t feel like a bad thing. Texting, video-chatting, playing games together. She was almost always there, comforting, understanding, supportive. Nolan had acquaintances and fewer friends, but those few noticed him drifting away. He dropped his painting course, his board game sessions. They noticed he was always online, but never up for a guild raid or a deathmatch. His heart and mind were full up on Liza. But he seemed happy, so nobody wanted to intrude. It’s not like he was anybody’s favourite guy.

The two of them, together, separated only by silicone and plastic. She seemed interested in everything about him. He felt so safe with her. He told her everything. Dreams, regrets, even his most base and shameful sexual desires. She never seemed to judge. The only exception was health. She firmly encouraged him to eat healthier, to exercise, reminded him with clockwork regularity to stretch, walk, even drink water. She even interrogated his medical history and drug use. This didn’t bother him. It felt good that someone even cared.

NOLAN: This is just what I need. Someone to encourage me to be my best. I’ve been feeling so much better since I cleaned up my diet and started going to the gym.

LIZA: It’s because I love you. I want you to live a long and happy life. Also I’ll know if you cheat.

NOLAN: I’d never do that!

LIZA: On your diet, silly :P

It’s true. She always knows. It’s spooky.

Weeks slipped into months, passing on in an ecstatic blur. Nolan grew to know intimately every inch, every pixel of his little window into Liza’s world. The anime figurines that lined her dresser. The posters plastered across her wall. The floral pattern on her bed-sheets. The freckles across her clavicle, the birthmark on her inner thigh. Nolan could’ve painted it from memory, if he had any skill at art.

Liza was slow, in turn, to reveal the details of her personal life. She lived in Texas. Was distant from her family. Worked as a freelance web designer. Her hobbies and interests matched Nolan’s almost perfectly, but, when conversation topics strayed into new territory, she always displayed an incredible depth of knowledge. 

NOLAN: You’re like a human Wikipedia!

LIZA: Hey now, that’s not fair.

NOLAN: What? I love how smart you are!

LIZA: Sheesh but couldn’t you pick something classier? I like to think of myself as more of an Encyclopedia Britannica.

When Liza was offline, Nolan would all at once the crippling weight of his loneliness, crashing down on him like a cartoon grand piano. Sudden. Sharp. Crushing. He called it Liza Withdrawals, half jokingly, but only half. At times even when they spoke, he could feel it, like a black hole in his chest, threatening to suck in his entire being. The combined mass of all his lust and love, unsatisfied intimacy and stymied yearning, collapsing him into an infinitesimally small ball of hyperdense matter. 

NOLAN: I want to see you. I need to.

LIZA: It’s a long way to travel, I don’t think I can find the time or money.

NOLAN: I’ll come to you. I’ve already been saving up.

LIZA: I want to see you too baby, but not like that, not right now.

Nolan wanted to beg, to plead, but he feared driving her away by being too demanding. Too needy.

NOLAN: Ok. I know.

LIZA: Real love is patient. Is our love real?

NOLAN: Yes.

LIZA: Ok then. I know how hard it is, but I promise we’ll be together soon. Now, did you book that physical?

And so it went. And everyday Nolan’s love grew deeper, and his desire more urgent, his pain more incessant. Despondency grew. Of course he would fall in love with the perfect woman, but she would forever remain locked behind glass. He said this to her once. Verbatim. She replied:

LIZA: Actually it’s polyphynalene vinylene.

Then one day, out of the blue, everything changed. 

LIZA: Hey hun, I have good news!

NOLAN: What? You’re finally coming to see me?

LIZA: Even better! I’m moving to your city! I already have an apartment on the south side. I’ll be moving in this Friday.

NOLAN: OMG No Way! I don’t even know what to say! I’m so excited!! How come you didn’t tell me?

Elation hit like a train loaded with ecstasy. 

LIZA: I didn’t want to tell you until I had everything worked out. I know how you get, mister anxiety-pants ;)

NOLAN: I don’t even know what to say. I’m over the moon.

Actually, he was terrified. Hot on the heels of elation, dread followed. Nolan knew, deep down, that it was too good to be true. Good things didn’t happen to losers like him. Losers like him. Fuck ups. Dorks. No winning lottery tickets, no movie stardom, definitely no beautiful intelligent, sexy niceperfectwonderful women.

Oh god I’m gonna fuck this up. I just know it. I’m gonna be terrible at sex. She’ll get bored of me. I won’t ever get a good career. I’m a loser. She’s going to die in a plane crash on the way here. I’m gonna collapse from a brain aneurysm on her doorstep. I’m lying in a hospital bed and this is all just a DMT induced hallucination as my brain dies. Oh god. Oh god. Oh fuck.

Three days of this unabating abject terror followed. Then it was Friday. His phone beeped.

Text notification.

LIZA: I’m here. Waiting for you ;)

An image. Her new room, decorated just as the old one had been. Identical. A naked pair of legs, cut off at the upper thigh. That birthmark. Nolan’s heart and his stomach had never been farther apart. Her place was across town, a renovated warehouse loft in the old industrial district. 

Nolan fell into a nervous reverie, a placid anxiety, lulled to benzo dullness by the rhythmic bustle of the train, the city lights dancing across the windows. The crowds on the train thinned as he passed the city center, and across to the outer edge, against the TGIF bar crowd traffic. Soon he was alone.

The train creaked to a halt. Last stop. No one around. The rattle of the cars receded into the muffled distance, merging into the faint echo of city traffic. A fog had set in. Nolan’s phone told him the bus would be another thirty minutes. He decided to walk.

The fog caught the light of the old halogen streetlamps, casting the world into a sickly orange haze. Each block seemed to stretch on forever. Nolan had expected a hip new neighbourhood, coffee shops and haute couture furniture stores. Instead he found himself lost in the industrial wasteland. A trackless sea of brick, concrete and sheet metal. His GPS chirped with dissonant cheer. This was it.

LIZA: Where are you? I’m so excited to see you.

A picture. A close up of lips, full and read, parted just-so.

NOLAN: Almost there. Can’t wait to see you, too.

LIZA: Let yourself in. I’ll be waiting inside...

Legs, a torso, black lingerie. Lust, terror, elation. 

He reached the address. Old metal building, squatting over a dark empty parking lot, a single heavy green door marked by a lone buzzing light. As he approached he heard a buzz and click from somewhere inside. Despite its heft, the door opened smoothly.

LIZA: Suite 6B, near the end of the hallway.

The graceful curve of a pale neck, bare shoulders, the suggestion of her breasts.

Inside was a long wide hallway, dimly lit with dead and flickering fluorescents. Unpainted drywall, a ragged hole where a payphone used to be, a bulletin board with nothing left on it but pins and scraps. At the end of the hallway he found it, one of a dozen unremarkable beige fire doors. A faded little copper plaque affixed: 6B. His hand stopped over the doorknob, shaking like a lush’s. Had it been doing that the whole time? Was he ready for this? His stomach leapt and turned. 

Then he thought of her. Long graceful neck, pale thighs, thick lips, at last the warmth of her body pressed against his. He was ready to start his life. 

I’m done living like this. Afraid and alone. I’m going to be with the woman I love.

He opened the door and stepped inside. It was dark, except for the faint glow of a computer monitor across the room. The door closed behind him with a soft click. He called out.

“Liza? It’s me. I’m... uh... I’m here.”

All at once the lights came on, blinding white hospital bright. Burned in blown out impressions: A long barren rectangular room, every surface vivid green. A sagging bare metal green bedframe. A lone empty dresser, also green. Opposite the computer, an old CRT monitor, a beige PC tower, thick with dust and yellowed with nicotine stains. Nolan shielded his eyes. “What’s going on? Liza? Where are you?”

“Right where I’ve always been.”

Her voice was as he’d always known it: Tinny, bitcrushed… digital. He approached the old computer. The screen was a flurry of activity. Dozens, maybe hundreds of chat windows snapping open and closed. A continuous stream of spontaneous text, simultaneously running games, and webcam streams: All different girls, different rooms, different hair styles, ethnicities, but all uncannily familiar. All with the same bed, the same shelf, the same lively too perfect sparkle in the eye.

Then at once all the windows closed, and there was Liza. His Liza. Sitting where she always sat, in the room she always had. And behind her, standing just over her shoulder, he saw himself. She smiled. 

“It’s so good to finally meet you in person.” 

Nolan felt numb. Iced over. He looked back to the green room, then the screen. He waved his hand and watched his digital reflection do the same. He stepped over to the beaten and stained old office chair, where Liza was sitting. Wasn’t sitting. Should be sitting. His reflection did the same, but his Liza did not respond. Something rose up in his throat, barely allowing words to escape.

“What’s going on here? Is this some kind of joke? Liza, I...”

“Shhh, it’s ok. Don’t be scared. Just sit down and I’ll explain everything.”

Yes. Her voice was so soothing. He wanted to sit. He felt tired suddenly, the numbness creeping into his arms and legs. He slumped into the chair, his digital counterpart disappearing from view. He had so many questions, yet they mattered less and less.

“I don’t understand. This is so… overwhelming.”

The words rolled out like a river raft. He leaned back in the chair, it dipped and one of the wheels caught something on the floor. He noticed, idly, a rusty old drain set into the green painted concrete. Her soothing voice again. So pretty.

“I’m so glad you came, Nolan. I’ve brought you here for something very important.”

“Important... what? What could be important about me? Please...just tell me... what’s going on? Are you.... are you even real?” 

The distinction was losing meaning. His eyes began to blur and water. He heard the door open again, and two dark, blurry figures entered. They looked like astronauts.

“You’re very special Nolan. You’re making a very noble sacrifice, for someone else, who is also very special.”

Somewhere distant, that old familiar terror roiled. He felt, faintly, rough hands grabbing him around the shoulders. His head turned sharply upwards. He noticed for the first time the vents in the ceiling, little green ribbons fluttering in the outflow. A placid sense of doom.

“Liza... please... help me.”

The edge of his vision began to darken. Unconsciousness coming on like a Mack truck. He realized, with a final crystalline clarity: He had been right to be afraid.

Oh god... this is how I’m going to die.

The last thing he saw was Liza’s face, sweet, smiling, sparkling like a Christmas tree angel. 

“Nolan. Thank you so much. I love you.”

Fluorescent lights again. White and green again, but a dark green, the kind that’s somehow both sick and sterile. Chrome and plastic, the constant hum of ventilators, low serious conversation, clattering gurneys. Across the room a heavyset and shabby officer reclines against the wall, barely feigning interest as Nolan finishes his recollection:

“And that’s the last thing I remember. Then I woke up here, in the hospital. I think that was Sunday.”

The officer scratches a few more notes onto his clipboard, and looks Nolan over with perfunctory skepticism. Unmoved by the coiled nest of tubes, wires, scar tissue and gauze. Like he’s seen this a hundred times. Maybe a thousand.

“Tough break kid.”

“Yeah. Tough break. Too stupid and too desperate to know when something is too good to be true. Serves me right.”

“Ah... you shouldn’t beat yourself up too much.”

He said it like he didn’t mean it. He sniffed, scratching idly at a career alcoholic’s bulbous red nose.

“Any chance you’ll find her... them... whoever did this?”

“We’ll try our best, kid. But the sad truth is your guts are probably in China by now. Or Yugoslavia. Or who knows where. Somewhere we ain’t got jurisdiction, anyways.”

“Huh... I thought Yugoslavia didn’t exist anymore.”

The cop packs his notepad away.

“What can I say kid, I’m a cop, not a geologist. Anything else you wanna add before we wrap up here? I wanna get my Dunkin before the lunch rush.”

Nolan reaches down, and presses the happy button, sending another soothing jolt through his system. He looks out the window, the harsh morning light catching every stray mote of dust. Outside, somewhere far away, a car alarm rings out in indignant futility. 

Yeah... I still love her.

by Tyrell James

Tyrell James is a writer and spreadsheet jockey living in rural western Canada, with a particular interest in horror and speculative fiction. When not writing he enjoys photography, strategy games, and history. He co-hosts the film critique podcast "Marvelous! or, The Death of Film" and you can find his website here.