Quarantined to their respective apartments in the Upper East Side and Brooklyn, new couple Alexis and Brad send each other thoughtful notes to retain contact over the long days and even longer nights.
4:36
My lovely Alexis,
Have you run out of oat milk, dearest? I gaze out the window, wistfully thinking of you with your roommates on the Upper East Side, all on separate Zoom meetings. Doing your various PR, marketing, and communications jobs with either your youthful zest for life or that of an erstwhile stoner who has weighed her options and realizes she still needs to pay rent.
The breeze grows chilly through my open window; I wrap my Patagonia tighter around my shoulders. This fleece was initially purchased for ironic 1980s charm, but now its aggressively orange silhouette is one of the brightest spots in the apartment. Save for your messages, dearest — those sweet thirst traps and my protein shakes are all that nourishes me. (Plus, Seamless.)
I must depart, the futures markets open soon, and I face certain doom with a courageous heart and steady hands. These Excel sheets won’t fill themselves, as surely these financial models won’t build overnight. Will by MD take pity upon me? Sequestered in Greenwich with his hot second wife, he has little sympathy for my plight or one-bedroom in Brooklyn Heights. He’s busy finally coming to terms that he has three children under four.
Should I adopt a dog?
I cannot wait until I wrap my arms around you at brunch again,
Brad
7:29
My dearest Brad,
It’s hard to believe it’s been a fortnight since I’ve been to Soulcycle. I clutch at my ample breast and weep over the loss of my streak and the N*Sync themed class I can never get back. My heart can’t take much more disappointment and, after much self-reflection and soul searching, have purchased a Peloton on backorder.
My yoga leggings are growing tighter by the hour — how much longer can I suffer such a spectacle? Rations of Frappuccinos and Buffalo Chicken Dip are sustaining me, but I worry about my figure. Is it my body that drew your right swipe, or perhaps my vast, and surprisingly in-depth knowledge of early 2000s reality television celebrities that kills at Trivia Night?
My hands continuously sting from dryness. I commit to washings as if I’m Lady Macbeth trying to erase my foul deeds, rather than one of Forbes’s 2017 Digital Media #30Under30. But, the only thing that chafes more than Aesop moisturizer on rough fingers and palms…is that you’re not holding them.
When life returns to normal, or a semblance of what it once was, let’s go away — just the two of us. We shall catch the Long Island Rail Road and flee to Montauk, where the rosé runs deep and cold.
Farewell dearest one, my carpal tunnel aches from texting this.
Alexissssssssssss
6:38
My heart,
Last night I was startled, I thought I saw you on OnlyFans, but it was yet another beautiful blonde with an affinity for Lululemon gear and Magic Mike posters adorning her walls.
Fret not about your figure; my rugby shirts fit even more snugly as my Equinox membership remains unused. Eucalyptus scented towels and steam rooms, when will we be reunited? For now, it’s only in my melatonin or NyQuil riddled dreams.
Sometimes, when I’m tossing and turning in my more listless hours, I can swear you’re on the other side of the bed. I momentarily panic because I can’t remember the last time I’ve washed my sheets or lacrosse pinnie I sleep in, but it’s just the ghost of your presence, a shadow of a fleeting dream, the last gift of my nightly bong hit.
Send more photos. They’ve helped ease the burden of solitude and gave me an excuse to order more moisturizer.
Brad
7:14
Dear Brad,
The haunted glow of my laptop illuminates my bedroom — at the moment, I’m both grateful for and terrified of this navy gingham prison with only my Magic Mike posters to comfort me. How I long for your touch, your presence, even your comments about how my out-of-season Christmas lights make it look like I’m living in a cheap Mexican restaurant.
Don’t forsake your hygiene because I’m not there to chastise and pull away. You have the coveted in-unit washer and dryer and should be using it to its full advantage. It’s genuinely not that difficult. I’m hand washing everything in my tub like a scullery maid with far too many sports bras.
Light of my life, the apple of my eye, the sole reason I will make the trek to Brooklyn — why were you on OnlyFans?
💖💖💖💖
Alexis
9:08
Sweetness, are you there?
Your read receipts have been on for hours. Since my message, you’ve Instagram storied an N64 championship while ogling Princess Peach and possibly drunkenly tweeted at Steve Mnuchin several times, asking him to post more photos of his wife.
I know how your syntax gets muddled after a few fingers of brandy. Did you break out the OG Four Loko reserves I acquired on eBay for your birthday present? I fear for your health and morning meetings.
Your one and only,
Alexis
9:52
Braaaaaaad, cease your tweeting. Your firm follows you, and against your better judgment, you do not have a locked account.
Out of irritation I’ve opened a lesser Chardonnay, please reach back out before I’ve drained the bottle — at least for your sake. The night grows cold and dark, and my roommates have begun a poorly timed Pirates of the Caribbean marathon, so my patience grows thin.
– Alexis
10:37
BRAD. FORSAKE YOUR INNER DEMONS AND STOP SUBTWEETING ME.
11:24
Alexis,
Calm yourself! It was because I missed you so dearly I broke out your sweet gift of contraband Four Loko. The rush of caffeine and malt liquor is a welcome reprieve to the sheer boredom, ennui, and panic that riddles me inept (but definitely not impotent).
Both your private messages and public tweets are making me reevaluate our union based on trust, faith, and a mutual love of bottomless mimosas. You are not dating “a sociopath who is living vicariously through high school #TBT Varsity photos where he isn’t slowly balding.”
Also, did you have to post that photo of you balancing a wine glass on your rear while performing yoga poses? And who is WEIGHTSPRO420 that keeps commenting things only I should be whispering into your delicate, quadruple pierced ears? I looked at his profile, and his gains are not purely from the gym and a keto diet, I’ll tell you that much.
Did your roommates make you inquire further about OnlyFans? They always hated me because they know you can do better than them. They sure do seem to have all the time in the world to watch my gym Instagram stories. Fear not my sweet buttercup; you are leagues ahead of your former sorority sisters.
Keep your spirits high and put the wine away. Enough for tonight.
Hugs,
Brad
1:13 A.M.
Brad,
A whole two months into our courtship, and you speak ill of my nearest and dearest? For shame, this is almost worse than that time you told me you stand behind Barstool Sports.
I’ve forsaken the wine and am now several chalices of vodka sodas in; I can’t deal with your negativity at the moment. As a PR PROFESSIONAL I do not take your callous indiscretions across social platforms lightly, don’t think I haven’t seen you talking to any chick with a pulse.
And for what it’s worth, WEIGHTSPRO420 doesn’t leave me on read.
xoxoxo,
A
1:18 A.M.
ALEXIS.
Pick up your phone, post-haste! I know you’re awake, that Instagram video of your knocking down a house of cards captioned with “my relationship,” then immediately shotgunning a Bud Light shall not be easily forgiven or forgotten.
-B
2:24 A.M.
Brad.
The betrayal. It stings like 1000 angry hornets, guts me like old Chipotle, and makes me feel as empty and vacuous as the last episode of Love is Blind.
In my Chardonnay laced and vodka-tinged pain, I told my roommates about what you said about them, and Madison revealed your torrid encounter with her. In MY LIVING ROOM. On this very couch I shall burn in the streets once we are released from this coronavirus prison of the mind, heart, and soul. The police will come, and I’ll tell them to arrest the real villain, the foulest fund manager of them all!!!!
To canoodle with my roommate while I was sleeping off a hangover that you gave to me is a betrayal of trust and decent furniture. That was an Anthropologie sofa you ruined for me forever!! Oh blue velvet, what stains are you hiding? Can I Clorox the pain away?
But in the immediate — when will the backstabbing end? I am but a Caesar, stuck in a Yorkville two bedroom flex with my Brutus for the indeterminate future. I have barricaded myself in my room with what remains of the fridge, and Madison’s cat I have taken as bounty. She has always liked me better, anyway.
We are out of vodka, and my hatred knows no bounds.
Gird your loins; I’m re-downloading Hinge.
Enjoy your solitude,
Alexis