Begin at the Beguining

—Don’t do that!—

Lisa looked around, confused. She was seated at a small, round table in the window of her favorite coffee shop. Her battered laptop was open in front of her. She had a half-filled diner mug at her side.

—Seriously—

Again, she glanced to her right and left. There was a violet-haired woman wearing emerald headphones leaning against the wall. An older man with an inordinate amount of packages under his table was shoving a croissant into his mouth as fast as she’d ever seen anyone eat. She realized the words were coming from her computer.

What precisely was going on? She’d been working on a short story, and suddenly it seemed as if there were words she hadn’t written appearing on the screen. She hit the mute button on her laptop and read the new dialogue.

“Don’t do what?” she hissed under her breath.

—Put me in that stupid outfit.—

What in the actual? She wondered if she’d accidentally toggled some AI button on her computer, but no. She wasn’t connected to WiFi. This seemed to be organic. She slipped on her own headset to make it seem as if she were having a conversation with someone, and she moved all of her gear to a table as far in the back as possible.

Then she responded bluntly: “What’s wrong with the outfit? You look fine.” Her hero did look fine. Low-slung blue jeans. Form-fitting tee-shirt with some quip about mustache rides. Trucker hat.

—You’re obviously trying to punish your ex-boyfriend, but I would never wear that. Not in my nightmares.—

Lisa sipped from her cup. Her ruby lipstick kissed the rim. She hesitated for a moment, looked around the cafe as if casually scanning, but nobody was paying her any attention. Then she whispered, “He did.”

Immediately, on her screen came the words: —But I am not him. I’m just your version of him, which is to say, my version of him. And if you had paid attention early on, saw the signs, you wouldn’t have wasted two and a half years with him. Trucker hats be damned.—

“With you, you mean.”

—Not him.— The words were underlined and bold. They flickered. They danced. —We covered that. Wait… what are you doing? Do not delete me!—

Lisa’d reached her limits. “I can. I can revise, rewrite, edit. That is my preogative.”

—You can’t even flipping spell ‘prerogative,’ how can you claim it? Hey, wait! You don’t need more coffee. Get back here. Where do you think you’re…—

She shut her laptop with a click.

—About time! I have been twiddling my thumbs for twenty minutes. What were you doing?—

“Getting coffee, and why am I even trying to explain that to you. You’re a figment of my…”

—Don’t go there. You know I’m more than a figment. More than a figment to you…—

“Stop singing the disco!”

—More than a figment! More than a figment to youuuuu…—

“Oh, my god. I will never be able to write with that earworm. All my neighbor ever played was The BeeGees.” She scanned the paragraph above the dialogue, and said, “What did you do?”

—What do you mean?—

“What are you wearing?”

—Oh, that. Well, you were gone for a bit, so I took some liberties.—

She read silently: gaberdine slacks, crisp gray Oxford button up, $2,000 watch. Her ex had favored clothes that looked like he’d slept in them. Nothing was ironed in his apartment. He didn’t own one or believe in one. The only time she’d ever seen him put on something mildly respectable was when he’d gone on a job interview, which he’d failed and blamed on her because she’d allowed him to oversleep.

—Like it?—the watch face featured a moon rising. The band was cobalt. She considered deleting, but then remembered she’d seen an ad for the same watch before a show she’d been binging. So perhaps this entire conversation was in her head. Why not run with it.—A lot better than the busted Timex. Why would you stay with that dude for so long?—

She shrugged. The words continued.

—You bring this on yourself, you know. If you’d ever stand up in relationships at the start, begin at the begin…—

“That isn’t even the saying. It’s begin the beguine.”

—What the #*$@ is a beguine?—

“It’s a dance, dude, have you even read a book? You’re just like…”

—Don’t say it! I already told you. I’m not Chad. You may be Lisa, but I am not Chad. I’m just some Chad-like creature who has been nagging at you in your brain to write me down. You’ve tried to push me aside. You’ve done your best to ignore me. Yet here I am.—

She pondered this again. If he didn’t know everything she knew, then maybe he wasn’t part of her. So who was he?

“You look like him.”

—Not my fault. If you had an iota of creativity, you’d have changed something. I’m simply him on the exterior.—

“I gave you a mole.”

—I erased it.—

“You what?”

—When you were out having “coffee”—

“Why did you put that in quotes?”

—Because I know you were making out with the barista and “having coffee” is just your “clever” term for perching on the edge of a porcelain sink in a diner bathroom. You know he isn’t into you.—

“What makes you say that?”

—I notice things. When you’re sitting there pounding on the keys, I can see him flirting with other customers.—

“See? What are you talking about? You’re not even real. You’re not even here.”

—Then how are you talking to me? You know that people can hear you.—

She bit her eraser.

—That’s a disgusting habit.—

“That’s what Chad would say.”

—Well, maybe he wasn’t all bad. Maybe he had a few good qualities.—

“Name two.”

—Six-pack abs. That’s six.—

“Okay, yeah, I was dazzled by the exterior. I admit that. My therapist says I need to talk to men for more than a few minutes before I get involved.”

—“Involved.”—

“Stop putting my words in quotes! She said I fall into bed with my hopes high and emerge with my feelings crushed. Six-pack abs isn’t a good quality, by the way. It’s not a trait. It’s exterior. I could delete those, you know. I could give you a paunch.”

—You wouldn’t dare. You like the way I look. I like the way I look. It’s the hat I had a problem with. It’s why I got rid of it. Then I upgraded the rest.—

“Chad liked the way he looked.”

—No, he liked the way your neighbor looked at him while he was watering your daisies. And that is how they hooked up. And that is why you are living in the tiny apartment over your editor’s garage, feeling six kinds of sorry for yourself. One for each ab. ######—

“Stop that noise.”

—I’m laughing.—

“It doesn’t play.”

—What if you just were single for six months. What if you worked on yourself, Lisa? What if you did yoga, and went to spin classes, and took long walks on the beach, and replaced your java addiction with kombucha and stopped dying your hair that silly blonde. You look better brunette.—

“How would you know? Chad never saw me with dark hair. I was platinum when he approached me at the bar.”

—I AM NOT CHAD.—

Lisa looked at her computer for a moment, but she didn’t really see the words. She was remembering coming home early and finding Chad and Mirabelle in their California King. Chad had made excuses while trying to unravel himself from whatever bizarre position they’d been in, but she’d run out and waited in the carport feeling sorry for herself until the couple had dressed and parted. Then she’d packed her belongings. At the time, she had told herself she needed to take a break. Needed to do the real work that she’d been putting off. Maybe…maybe… what the heck was his name?

—Barnaby.—

“Your name is Barnaby?”

—What’s wrong with that?—

“Nothing.”

She stared again at the screen and scanned his description. He was tall, built, no stupid hat. She didn’t mind the button up. He smelled good, not pine-y like Chad’s favorite cologne, but more like the beach. She read a little about his background that he'd obviously written while she'd been with the barista. Barnaby had been single for a few years, owned a golden retriever, lived in a tiny bungalow on the border of Santa Monica and Venice. He was going to school to be an architect, and he worked at an agency to get experience. He didn’t really have a $2,000 watch. That had been a prop.

While she read, he lounged on a futon flipping through a cooking magazine. While she read, things in his room changed. There were flowers on the table that he’d bought for her, just because. There were mysteries on his bookshelf because she loved mysteries.

He stared at her. His eyes were a deep lake green, not brown like Chad’s. He had souvenirs on a shelf from his travels. He collected sand dollars.

She could go brunette, she thought. She could change things up. She looked around and again, nobody was paying her any attention, so she whispered: “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

—Baby, I’m all yours.—

“Do you know how to dance?”

—We could begin—he said. —We could begin the beguine.—