Every Seventh Wave by Daniel Glattauer

you’d know what “it” is. But take comfort, I didn’t expect you to. It’s late, I’m off to bed.
    Good night. Seven more waking ups and then we’re done.
    Emmi
    Twenty minutes later
    Subject: Of course I can!
    Hi Emmi,
    I’ve just got in. In answer to your question: “Yes, of course I can still feel it.”
    Good night,
    Leo
    Three minutes later
    Re:
    Leo, wait! I’m (suddenly) wide-awake again and I’m afraid I’m not going to let you just slink off to bed like that, even at this late hour. I won’t allow it; it’s against all the rules! “Yes, of course I can still feel it” is a nothing statement. That’s no answer, not even an evasive one. You’ve given me no evidence to suggest that you know what “it” is, the thing you’re supposed to be able to feel. You’re probably just bluffing, to get a bit of peace and quiet. But I’m sorry, Leo dear, you still owe me a proper answer!
    Fifteen minutes later
    Re:
    My answer was as cryptic as your question, dear Emmi. You didn’t call “it” by its name because you wanted to test me, to see whether I remembered what “it” was. I didn’t call “it” by its name because I wanted to test you to see whether you’d believe (you didn’t!) that I knew what I was talking and thinking about, and what I was feeling when I think of you. “It,” for instance. Yes, I still can. Sometimes the feeling’s stronger, sometimes weaker. Sometimes I have to expose it first with the tip of my middle finger. Sometimes I stroke it with the thumb on my other hand. For the most part it makes itself known. I can run as much water over it as I like, it won’t wash away, it keeps on coming back. Sometimes it tickles, which probably means you’re writing me a cynical email. And sometimes it really hurts, which means I’m missing you, Emmi, and wishing that everything were different. But I don’t want to be ungrateful. I have “it,” the point where you touched me in the center of my palm. All my memories and desires are crammed into it. This point houses the full Emmi catalogue, with every conceivable accessory for the demanding, gazing-out-wistfully-upon-an-expanse-of-fairy-tale-landscape Leo Leike.
    Good night!
    Seven minutes later
    Re:
    Thanks, Leo, I enjoyed that! I’d love to be with you right now!
    One minute later
    Re:
    You are!
    The following day
    Subject: My question
    Hello Emmi. As promised, I’m going to repeat my question from yesterday: “Are you giving your marriage another chance?”
    Two hours later
    Re:
    How very exciting! After romantic, nighttime Leo, who can be so, so, so engaging when he talks about points of contact, here we have sober daytime Leo again, the email pastor who fights on behalf of the relationships of his confidantes as if he could earn a commission from them. Hmmm. I’m going to interpose a question. Here goes: “In some of the very first messages after the resumption of my Leo-mail relationship, I wrote that I had talked to Bernhard about you a great deal, about both of us, in fact. Why aren’t you asking me what was said? Why will you only see Bernhard in isolation? Why can you not grasp that my relationship with him is directly connected to my relationship with you?” (And please don’t now tell me that was three questions. There were three question marks, but it’s one and the same question!)
    Three hours later
    Re:
    Dear Emmi,
    I don’t want you to discuss me with Bernhard, or at least, I don’t want to know if you do. I’m neither a part of your family, nor of your group of friends. I categorically refuse to believe that your relationship with him has anything to do with your relationship with me. I just don’t believe it! I never wanted to fight him. I never wanted to push him out. I never wanted to squeeze myself into your marriage. I