Page 7 of The Cyrano Situation
I was surprised he remembered. "Very. It's a fascinating inversion of the traditional mystery structure."
Hart nodded, twirling pasta around his fork. "The way you described it, it sounds kind of like 'Columbo.'"
"I... yes, actually. Though considerably more complex."
"I used to watch reruns with my dad." He took a bite, then pointed his fork at me. "You know what else is like that? Relationships."
I set down my sandwich, already sensing where this was going. "Hart…"
"No, hear me out. In most relationships, the 'who' is established early on. It's the 'how' that's the mystery. How do two people with different lives, different habits, different ways of seeing the world make it work?" He leaned forward, eyes bright with enthusiasm. "That's the real puzzle."
"A puzzle I have no interest in solving," I said, picking up my sandwich again. "As I've made clear."
Hart studied me for a moment, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "Can I ask you something? And you don't have to answer if you don't want to."
I sighed. "I suspect you'll ask regardless of my preference."
"Fair point." He set down his fork. "When was the last time you weren't lonely?"
The question hit me like a physical blow. "I'm not lonely."
"Everyone's lonely sometimes, Cyril. Even me."
"You?" I couldn't keep the skepticism from my voice. "You're the most social person I know."
"Being surrounded by people isn't the same as being understood by them." He said it simply, without self-pity. "But you didn't answer my question."
I looked down at my sandwich, suddenly not hungry. "I prefer solitude. It's not the same as loneliness."
"True," Hart conceded. "But they're not mutually exclusive either."
An uncomfortable silence fell between us. I took a sip of water, trying to formulate a response that would end this line of conversation without being overtly rude.
"Check your email," Hart said suddenly.
I blinked at the non sequitur. "What?"
"Your email. Check it. I sent you something."
With a sigh, I turned to my computer and opened my inbox. There, at the top, was an email from Hart with the subject line "Just a thought."
I clicked it open to find a link to a dating profile. LiteraryMinded36.
"What is this?" I asked, though I had a sinking feeling I already knew.
"Just look at it," Hart said, his expression a mixture of apprehension and hope.
I clicked the link, and my suspicions were confirmed. A dating profile. Not just any dating profile. One crafted to sound very much like... me.
The description was eerily accurate: a literary-minded introvert who appreciated structure and routine, who valued quality over quantity in all things, who preferred meaningful conversation to small talk. There were references to books I'd mentioned to Hart, phrases that echoed sentiments I'd expressed.
"You created a dating profile for me," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "Without my knowledge or consent."
Hart had the grace to look slightly abashed. "I know it sounds bad when you put it like that—"
"Because it is bad, Hart. It's a violation of my privacy and my explicitly stated wishes." I closed the browser window with more force than necessary. "Delete it. Now."
"Before you go nuclear, scroll down to the bottom of the email."
