Page 11 of The Cyrano Situation
"But—"
"No buts. This is exactly why you asked for my help, remember? Because I don't turn simple text messages into doctoral dissertations."
I slumped back against my couch. "Fine. What do I say?"
"Something honest but light. How was your day, actually?"
I considered. "I spent the morning correcting an author who kept writing 'for all intensive purposes' and the afternoon questioning my entire approach to interpersonal communication."
"Perfect!" Hart said with such enthusiasm that I pulled the phone away from my ear. "Well, we'll edit slightly. Type this:'Not bad! Spent the morning saving authors from their own malapropisms. How about yours?'"
I obediently typed the message, then hesitated. "Should I include an emoji?"
"If you want. Something simple."
"According to a cross-cultural study of digital communication patterns, men use emojis 45 percent less frequently than women, but in romantic contexts, that gap narrows to—"
"Oh my GOD," Hart groaned. "I'm going to start charging you a dollar for every statistic you quote. Just use a simple smiley face like he did."
"The reciprocation principle in communication suggests mirroring the other person's style, so that's actually sound advice," I conceded, adding the smiley face.
"I'm hanging up now, but send me a screenshot after you send it."
My finger hovered over the send button after Hart disconnected. I read the message three times, searching for any possible misinterpretation or unintended innuendo. Finding none, I took a deep breath and pressed send.
Not bad! Spent the morning saving authors from their own malapropisms. How about yours? :)
There. Done. Message sent at 6:47 PM on a Tuesday evening. According to the research I had done (but wisely not shared with Hart), the average response time for text messages was approximately 90 minutes, but evening messages often took longer due to dinner preparations and other evening activities.
Which meant I had at least an hour, probably two, to return to my manuscript and make some progress before—
My phone vibrated.
6:48 PM. Jules had responded in less than sixty seconds.
"No," I whispered to my phone. "That's not how this works. You're supposed to give me time to psychologically prepare for the next round."
The notification taunted me from my lock screen. With the resignation of a man approaching his own execution, I swiped to open the message.
Haha, love it! I spent MY day convincing undergrads that Hemingway wasn't just "some old dude who liked fishing." Only partially successful. What kind of books do you edit?
I stared at the message. Three sentences. An actual question requiring a substantive response. And was that... humor? Jules was being funny. Intentionally amusing. Which meant I was now expected to be amusing in return.
I hit Hart's number so fast my finger hurt.
"Emergency," I said when Hart answered. "Jules responded in 47 seconds and he's being witty and asking about my job and I don't know how to be professionally descriptive while maintaining the light conversational tone and—"
"Breathe," Hart instructed. "In through the nose, out through the mouth. I can literally hear you hyperventilating."
I complied, drawing in a shaky breath.
"Now read me his exact message."
After I recited it, Hart made an appreciative sound. "That's good! He's engaged, he shared something about his day, and he asked you a question that plays to your strengths. This is going well."
"It is?"
"Yes, you adorable disaster. Now, tell me truthfully—what kinds of books do you actually edit?"
