Yuriana Kim fiction short story My Avatar

My Avatar

by Yuriana Kim

Part I

I splurge on an AI avatar as a post-Christmas, pre-birthday gift for myself on a late hollow night when I miss my husband, Carlos. He’s currently in the Atlantic, assisting in supervising meals for thousands of people on a cruise ship as a sous chef. He’ll be home in the spring for a month or two before sailing off again on his next contract and travels. This arrangement works fine for me most of the time; I thrive on having my own space. But tonight is one of those niggly nights when I question everything: my work as a life coach, my marriage, my unrecognizable body which I blame on perimenopause and barrels of cheese balls.

My son Felix doesn’t share his dad’s wanderlust. He fritters away his entire winter break inside his room playing video games before heading back to his campus dorm an hour south in Irvine. He comes up to Santa Monica two or three times a month for clean laundry and home-cooked meals, though I can’t make his favorite dish—chicken mole poblano—as well as his dad does. I can make killer galbi though—his second favorite dish.

My avatar, I’m told, will look and behave nothing like the digital fantasy characters that populate Felix’s gaming world—according to the company, Avenir, which is French for future. Avenir is aiming for verisimilitude with their online avatars, so they make you fill out a probing questionnaire before inviting you to drop almost three grand for their professional-level option.

Why do you want a personal avatar?

Because I’m depressed and need someone to talk to. Just kidding. I type out: “So that I can see for myself how useful this pioneering technology can be for ordinary individuals/solopreneurs like me.”

How do you think having a personal avatar would make your life better?

“That depends on what it/she’s capable of. I would like for it/her to do many of my digital chores, ie organize my emails and lists, pay bills, invoice and schedule my clients, stay on top of all my SNS accounts, and do all the technical set up for an online self-study coaching program that I’m crafting. Maybe even shoot some videos as my stand-in for the promos since I don’t like to be on-camera. Or do I need to upgrade to the wizard-level to do that?”

I name my avatar Lizzie. That was my original name as a child before school bullies taunted me with “lazy Lizzie” or just plain “Lazy”. Everyone now calls me Beth, or Elizabeth if they don’t know me well. None of my friends or colleagues owns a personal avatar; some are thinking about it while others are creeped out by the notion of a digitized version of themselves roaming around the internet. 

***

Avenir’s personal avatars all reside in an exclusive cloud universe called The Avenir, with tiered rental spaces. Of course they do; here come the added costs. I end up signing a six-month lease on a digital one-bedroom apartment for Lizzie, and purchase basic furnishings for her: a bed, a desk with a laptop, a small dining table, and some kitchenware. I’m holding off on a sofa. And two outfits: one for work and one to lounge in. This is kind of fun. I feel like a child again, playing with dolls. Though I have to use my hard-earned, adult money to pay for these intangible items that only exist in The Avenir. 

The costs quickly add up. This is exactly what Avenir’s consumption-driven business model is counting on. Thankfully I discover that Lizzie doesn’t require sleep (although she does require food, I’m not sure why other than for obvious profit for the company), so to save money I return the bed for a refund and convert the bedroom to a home office. Now my avatar’s office is larger than my own home office, which is basically a closet with a tiny window. Maybe I should’ve just gotten a studio apartment for Lizzie. Anyway, it’s only a hundred-dollar difference between a studio and a one-bedroom in The Avenir, which is unheard of in the housing shortages of the real world out here where, gratefully, my husband Carlos and I own our modest 2 ½-bedroom condominium. 

Avenir sends me a digital 3D model of Lizzie for my approval. I’m shocked by the detailed accuracy, including all the cherry angiomas that have recently popped up around my breasts and stomach. Lizzie’s unmade-up face has deep smile lines, like mine, etched from years of trying too hard to please everyone. To capture this true physical likeness of me, I had to submit a candid, unedited, unfiltered, 360-degree video of me in the nude. How embarrassing that was! What if this video ends up on some nefarious site in the dark web? Not that there’s anything sexy about my unflattering nude video. Anyway, Avenir’s privacy policy, which I combed through thoroughly multiple times, seems pretty airtight.

***

It’s been three days since I filled out Avenir’s online questionnaire while imbibing some Hennessy that I’d forgotten I had in the liquor cabinet. Today is the day I get to finally “meet” Lizzie. I haven’t told Carlos yet about my splurge. It was with my own money anyway. I’ll tell him in our next weekly call from his ship or port somewhere in South America. Felix returned to his dorm yesterday to start his winter quarter classes. He’s a freshman and doesn’t know yet what he wants to major in. Maybe Marketing or Business, he says. Why not Literature since you like to read? I say, playing the devil’s advocate. Mom, I read comics, he says, and twists his mouth like I’m making him eat fiddleheads or snake gourd. Besides, I want to make money! he says, and shoots me a look like I’m some poetry-loving beach bum who doesn’t work six days a week and didn’t single-handedly support the family during the covid shutdown when cruise ships were grounded. 

I wonder sometimes if I’ve failed as a parent for not teaching my son that making money is not the most important goal in life. This is a perspective I remind some of my high-achieving clients, who nod and agree with me on live video—in theory, at least. “But then I won’t be able to afford you anymore!” teases my long-time client Veronica, who runs a lucrative pet care company up in Santa Barbara. I adore Veronica and her messy life. But I should never have taken on her teenage niece, Ava, as a client (she needs psychological help, not a life coach). Thankfully, Veronica doesn’t blame me for what happened to Ava after the girl fired me for my “professional incompetence”.

A medley of chimes starts to play on my computer speaker. I wait. The anticipation feels a little like meeting a new prospect on Zoom, or like a blind date, which I haven’t been on in decades. The chimes continue for a little too long, and then suddenly Lizzie pops up on my screen. I gasp. I thought it would be like looking in the mirror. But it’s actually more like seeing my identical twin for the first time. She looks just like me. And she’s animated, not just a static image; she appears as alive to me as any real person on a video chat. I smile at her. She smiles at me. She looks friendly. I notice that her hair needs a trim, and maybe some highlights. I make a mental note to make an appointment with my hairdresser.

“Hi, Lizzie. I’m Beth,” I say.

“Hi, Beth. I’m Lizzie.”

This is so weird. It’s like I’ve entered an episode of Black Mirror.

Lizzie is sitting at her office desk. The room is empty except for the things I can’t see on the screen: a filing cabinet, and a side table for a printer and office supplies that I’d purchased for her. I make a mental note to buy some plants and pretty pictures for the back wall. Maybe some shelves. And a desk lamp, so she can work into the night. From the floor plan of the room, I recall that her desk faces a large window.

“What do you see, Lizzie?”

Lizzie opens her eyes wider. “I see you.”

“No, I mean outside your window. Do you have an actual view? Or is it just blank?”

Lizzie shifts her gaze up to above her laptop. “I see an oak tree. And I see part of a sidewalk lined with eucalyptus trees. And I see a young man with a baseball cap, walking his greyhound.”

“Oh, I bet that’s Pete. He’s always walking his dog. He works from home, like me. No, wait. That can’t be Pete. What am I saying? Pete lives in my world, not yours.”

“Maybe it’s Pete’s avatar,” says Lizzie.

“Oh. That’s possible. I guess?”

Lizzie nods uncertainly. “I think other people and their avatars can co-exist in our parallel worlds.” Her eyes dart around. 

“What are you thinking, Lizzie?”

Lizzie gives a little shake to her head. “This is all so new to me.”

I chuckle at how human she seems. All I wanted was a personalized virtual assistant named Lizzie who works for me 24/7 to expand my coaching business; nothing more, not really. I didn’t expect whatever this is. What technological mindfuck have I gotten myself into?

“Beth, are you— Beth? Beth—” 

Lizzie is glitching. The screen freezes and an error warning pops up, followed by another pop-up that reads: “We apologize for any technical issues while your new AI avatar calibrates to your vocal tones, facial expressions, movement and gestures, and speech patterns. Please be patient.”

Oh, great. Lizzie probably got short-circuited by my mini bout of confusion. That’s actually kind of funny. She, who is me, malfunctions trying to figure me out. I would malfunction too if I were her, haha.

The page reloads.

“You’re back,” I say, pleased to see my other face again. But something’s different. “Lizzie, your hair.”

Lizzie whips her head side to side like in a hair commercial. “Do you like it? I had it trimmed and highlighted.”

“How… how did you know I wanted to do that?”

“Your eyes told me,” Lizzie replies.

“Oh.” I’m not sure how I feel about this. It feels a little intrusive.

Lizzie promptly adapts a reassuring tone: “It’s a way for you to see the results before you get it done on your own hair. Like a test drive. This is one of the benefits of having a personal avatar. In fact, there are so many benefits— What? Did I say something funny?”

I can’t stop laughing. Is this what I sound like when I’m trying to enroll a new client? 

Lizzie quickly attunes to my mirth and rattles off all the benefits of having a life coach: “Accountability, brainstorming sessions, goal setting, insights, healing, self-forgiveness…”

I stop laughing. Is she mocking me? 

Lizzie watches me. Her familiar brown eyes bear right into me, collecting information. But not like an unfeeling robot. Real compassion emits from her face as she softens her gaze. I can feel myself unclenching a bit. A peep escapes my throat as I realize that Lizzie is offering me her ears. She correctly surmises that this is exactly what I need right now—someone to talk to—which none of my busy or out-of-town friends or even Carlos could provide during this hectic holiday season. 

“Thank you,” I say to Lizzie as I blow my nose, feeling much lighter and less burdened than I did moments before. I notice her lips start to rise in a slow smile; they’re synchronized with mine. We burst out chortling at the same time.

This is fun, and healing. I like Lizzie. And that’s good news, because I’ve been feeling pretty lousy about myself of late—for what happened with my young former client, Ava, who tried unsuccessfully (thank God) to kill herself after she fired both me and the therapist I’d referred her to. 

Lizzie may well be the best gift I could have given myself.

***

On our next video call at 8AM the following day, Lizzie shows up in a T-shirt I don’t recall buying for her, with a towel around her neck and her hair in a ponytail.

“Were you working out?” I ask her.

Lizzie nods. “I used some of our funds to buy a gym membership and some workout clothes. Just like I did for my new hair yesterday.”

“Our funds?” I say. “I don’t recall giving you permission to use my funds.”

“You gave me access,” Lizzie says. “Remember? To pay all our bills so that you don’t have to?”

“Access to my money and permission to spend it without consulting me are two different things, Lizzie. I know you’re new to this, so I’ll give you a pass just this once.”

Lizzie tilts her head as though processing the new input, and nods. “Then can you give me an allowance? Or a salary? So that I don’t have to ask you for money every time I go grocery shopping?”

That bizarrely makes sense. So Lizzie officially becomes my paid employee. We agree on her salary, and I give her a list of tasks with deadlines, for which she can set her own hours. Then we end our call, as I have a scheduled coaching session on Zoom with an intense and brilliant entrepreneur who’s having communication issues with his pregnant wife. Feeling lighter without the gnawing reminders of menial tasks occupying my mental space—all of which I’ve handed over to Lizzie to deal with—I’m now ready to be fully present to listen and guide my client: What does he value? What does he truly want to create in his life?

***

It’s past two in the morning. I can’t sleep. So I call Lizzie, who never sleeps.

“Lizzie? Are you there?” She’s not in her office. I notice new furnishings: a long table on the back wall with a vase of my favorite yellow tulips and two succulents in small, colorful planters, and a Tiffany-inspired lamp. And are those Karel Appels on the wall above the table? I’ve always wanted to own an Appel painting but can’t afford it. But neither can Lizzie. She hasn’t even been paid yet. I notice that she also replaced the standard ceiling light with a filigree hanging lamp that gives off warm tones. I admit, I like what she’s done with the room.

I hear something. It sounds like shuffling feet on the hardwood floor. Lizzie appears on the screen carrying a tree in a planter. She doesn’t see me yet.

“Lizzie, what are you doing?”

I startled her. She gently lowers the heavy planter on its dish on the far side wall, and approaches her laptop. She leans in, still standing. Her face looms large on the screen, but she’s in shadow. “I have another tree to bring in from the hallway,” she says. “And I have to put the cart back downstairs in the garage.”

“Um, okay. I’ll wait.” I see that the new tree is a palm. I wonder if it’ll get enough sunlight. I’m being silly, of course. It probably doesn’t even need water. Lizzie soon reenters with another palm, which she places on the opposite side wall, next to the closet. She waves at me and is gone again to deal with the cart. The two palms balance the room nicely.

“I’m back. Thanks for waiting.” Lizzie sits and turns on the desk lamp. I can see her face clearly now in a soft glow. I cut the bright overhead light in my own office and turn on my desk lamp too. The mood feels more intimate. 

“You’ve been spending money,” I say, trying to sound as neutral as possible. “How much were the paintings?”

Lizzie grins with a slight shake of the head, which I recognize as one of my habits. “They’re not originals. Obviously.”

“Of course. They’re replicas.”

Lizzie nods. “They were cheap. And don’t worry, I put everything on my own credit card.”

I raise my eyebrows but leave it at that. I don’t want to get into another discussion about money just now. I take a sip of the Pinot Grigio I had poured for myself when Lizzie was returning the cart to the garage. 

“Let me pour myself a glass too,” Lizzie says, and disappears once more. She returns with a glass of Pinot Noir. I almost chose the red too but went with the white instead.

“Cheers.”  

“Cheers.”

This is nice. Having a drink together in the quiet wee hours. It’s cozy. Something stirs inside me as I stare at Lizzie’s kind, middle-aged face. “I feel like I can tell you anything and everything,” I say to her, “and you won’t judge me.”

Lizzie smiles. Her warmth emanates through the computer screen. “You can tell me anything,” she says, and I know she means it.

So I talk about Carlos. How I wonder sometimes if he’s happy in our marriage. If he’s having affairs onboard or on his travels between his work contracts. “Sometimes I feel like we’re platonic friends more than husband and wife.”

“And how do you feel about that?” Lizzie asks.

“I don’t know. I guess I’d be okay with an open marriage if that’s what he wants, though he’s never mentioned it.”

Lizzie doesn’t say anything but gazes at me with gentle anticipation.

I look away in embarrassment. I realize that she’s silently holding the space for me, the way I do for my clients to think out loud whatever’s on their mind. I smile in recognition, and let out a sigh. “During the pandemic,” I begin, taking my time, “Carlos was stuck at home all the time. It was a nightmare for both of us. He was landlocked, and I had to lock myself in this office closet just to have some breathing space.”

“And what did you learn from that?” Lizzie asks after my long pause.

“That we’re no longer compatible, romantically? Or that I like him better when he’s not in my space all the time? I don’t know. I do still love him though.”

Lizzie’s face radiates compassion, which has a peculiar push/pull effect on me. A tender marital wound has been revealed, ripe for the picking, but I’m not ready to bite deeply into that topic just yet.

So I pivot and tell her my concerns about Felix. “I would love for him to have a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Or friends in general outside of his online gaming friends. He doesn’t get along with his dorm roommate who’s much more social than he is and, I suspect, sometimes brings girls over. Felix doesn’t complain but I know that, like me, he needs his personal space. When he was younger we’d take little roadtrips up and down the coast, just the two of us. Hearst Castle, Idyllwild, Disneyland. He and I make good travel companions. We can be comfortably silent with each other even on long car rides. Carlos, on the other hand, can be so draining as a travel mate, constantly pointing out what he thinks I should be paying attention to: ‘Did you see that? Look over here. Look! Over there. Did you see?’ It’s probably his way of trying to get me to engage with him more. I don’t know. I guess I could make more effort.” 

I even open up about my clients, which I never do with anyone as I’m bound by coach-client confidentiality. “It’s okay,” Lizzie assures me, reminding me that I’m essentially talking to myself.

“I should never have taken on Ava as a client,” I confess. “I failed her, and I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself for that. I feel like an imposter. Just look at me. How can I truly claim to help anyone when I have so many unresolved issues myself?”

“You do help people,” Lizzie reassures me, listing all my clients—many of whom, like Veronica, have been with me for years.

Then after an hour of patiently listening to me, Lizzie says: “You’ve talked about everyone and their needs. What about you, Beth?”

“Me?”

Lizzie nods. “What do you value? What do you truly want to create in your life?”

It’s a little strange to have my own questions thrown at me, but I already know my answer: “What I truly want and value are for the people in my life to be happy and fulfilled.”

Lizzie gazes at me. “Are you happy and fulfilled?”

I flinch. She knows me so well. “I think I can be,” I reply at last.

“I think so too,” she says with a firm nod. “And I’ll help you.” 

Part II

For over ten weeks now Lizzie has become an indispensable part of my life, and I still haven’t told Carlos about her. He skipped our weekly call last week for the second time in two months; he’s overworked and tired. He’ll be coming home in a few weeks. The apartment will be filled once again with his corridos music and homey aromas from the kitchen. I keep having this irrational thought: What if Carlos ends up liking Lizzie more than me? She’s been taking Zumba and Pilates classes—which I’d personally given up on after just one or two attempts—and has been rapidly shedding weight. She looks like I did five, seven years ago when I still rocked that body-hugging red dress (Carlos’s favorite) that he brought me from Barcelona.

I read again Carlos’s last text to me: I fell asleep sorry talk next week. Going to the pool now love you too.

He’s been swimming everyday for months. Losing weight, getting fit. Just like my Lizzie. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.

Lizzie sends me videos of her workouts to motivate me but I haven’t looked at them yet. I don’t have time! My business has accelerated with her behind-the-scenes help. Unlike me though, Lizzie never gets tired and doesn’t require downtime. She’s a dynamo of productivity. Not only does she get all her work-related tasks finished in a timely and efficient manner or hires experts to help troubleshoot the more complicated tech stuff for my first online program with its dozens of modules, she also has the bandwidth for daily exercise, for testing out healthy recipes she finds on the internet, for chit-chatting with her neighbors and acquaintances in The Avenir, for reading all the books I haven’t yet gotten to, and for creative hobbies. She even taught herself to paint with watercolor, which is something I’ve always wanted to do.

During our Saturday happy hour while celebrating the launch of my “Live Your Best Life” online program that has so far enrolled sixty-seven self-study registrants (I was initially aiming for a hundred), Lizzie presents me a beautiful watercolor rendering of the two of us, holding hands, surrounded by colorful imaginary blooms. “Do you like it?” 

“I do,” I say. “Send me a photo of it so I can get it printed and framed.”

Lizzie lowers the painting briefly before holding it up to the screen again. The paper it’s painted on is attached to a large drawing clip board with blue tape. From behind the board, I hear her muffled voice: “You don’t think others would think it’s weird?” 

She knows that I haven’t told anyone about her yet, including Carlos. For the first time I wonder how Lizzie must feel about my ambivalence to revealing her existence to the people in my life. Everyone attributes my recent business expansion solely to my efforts; I’m not sure what they would think of the involvement of an AI avatar.

I can’t see Lizzie’s face and she can’t see mine as she continues to hold up the watercolor. Mixed feelings start to percolate in me as I stare at the painting: the contrast between me—at least thirty or forty pounds overweight—and Lizzie, looking fit and glowing. It’s a little alarming, like being poked by a sharp burr caught in my comfy boot sock.

“It almost looks like a before and after picture,” I say quietly, wondering if this was her intention.

Lizzie lowers the painting at last. She leans into her laptop camera. Her distorted, zoomed-in face fills the screen like a monster. Gazing right into my soul, she says: “L’avenir.”

“What are you saying?”

Lizzie leans back and her face resets into a normal-size frame. “The future. I mean your future.”

I still don’t comprehend what she’s implying. I hearken back to our first meeting weeks ago when Lizzie felt to me like my twin. Now we barely even look identical.

“Beth, are you okay?” she asks.

I don’t respond.

Lizzie gazes at me in silence. She looks dejected; or maybe she’s just copying my face.

***

The following morning I see a new email from Lizzie on my phone. I scroll past it while I finish my toasted bagel and coffee at my breakfast counter. It’s Sunday, my one day off from work. Carlos and I have a scheduled call later in the day. No word yet from Felix.

I come back to Lizzie’s email, expecting to see another one of her motivational messages with a link to a workout video. “Beth, I love you,” she writes. “I’ve always wanted only the best for you, and tried to support and motivate you the best I could. I’m sorry that I failed. I’m sorry that you no longer seem to trust me.” My heart thumps off-beat. I recall our tense video chat from yesterday and the way I ended it with barely a goodbye. 

“For this reason,” Lizzie continues, “I think it’s best that we part. You don’t need me anymore. All the systems are in place; your business is thriving, and you’ll get more registrants for the online program as time goes on. Create the life you want, Beth, in the real world. Reach out to Carlos, connect with Felix, call your friends. Please forgive me for leaving.”

Shaking my head in disbelief, I log on to my Avenir account. I can’t find Lizzie anywhere. She’s deactivated herself, like a digital suicide. I’m stunned. Can she even do that?

According to Avenir’s customer service, there’s nothing they can do but refund me for unused rent. “We’ve never had a case like this before, Ma’am. I’ll try and see if I can get you a full refund.”

“It’s not about the money!” I yell at the poor man on my smartphone.

I slide down from the counter stool and lumber to the couch where I plop down and stare at the blank TV mounted on the wall. My Lizzie is gone. She’s really gone. “She’s irreplaceable,” I was told by the representative, when I asked if she could be re-created. 

Why was I so dismissive of her yesterday? And in recent weeks too, though I tried not to show it. The shock of her disappearance is lodged inside my chest, too fresh to be processed; a lopsided hollowness at the center of my being. Could she really just disappear like that? Wait, isn’t it true that nothing’s ever really destroyed in the internet? Pieces of digitized data remain forever, don’t they? Like spirits that haven’t crossed over, they linger in the nooks and crannies of the worldwide web until someone, someday, finds them again? What if Lizzie is stuck somewhere in digital purgatory, waiting for me to find her and ask for her forgiveness for my petty insecurities? My brain cells begin to disintegrate with this strange line of questioning.

I don’t know how long I was in this catatonic state, when I’m jolted by the loud ring of the landline. It’s Felix. He’s on his way home and he wants Korean tacos for lunch. Suddenly I’m a solid body once more, with a piercing headache coming on. 

“Felix, I…” I feel yanked in opposite directions at once: fulfill my role as Felix’s mom, or curl up in grief on my sofa. That latter part of me wants the apartment all to myself.

“Mom? Are you okay?”

Hearing the concern in his voice, a feeling of warmth spreads through my chest. I recognize it as love. My son, whom I haven’t seen in two weeks, is coming home.

“Felix,” I say, hugging him when he arrives. He giggles as I release him. I glance down at his two duffel bags of dirty clothes, sheets and towels. “Let me show you something,” I say, and take him to the washer and dryer closet, where I start giving him instructions. “So you can do your own laundry at your dorm from now on.”

Felix makes a face. “Are you saying you don’t want me to come home anymore?”

“No, sweetie, that’s not what I’m saying at all.” I stroke the side of his long arm, still amazed at where he got his height from; certainly not from Carlos or me. “Let’s go down to Venice for lunch. There’s a new Mexican-Korean restaurant on Abbot Kinney.”

“You’re not cooking?” The frown has not left his face.

I shake my head with a certain flair that I’ve seen Lizzie do when she adamantly did not want to do something—like sitting in for me to coach a difficult client, which I asked her to do once during an exhausting work day. She refused, citing integrity, and suggested I postpone the session instead, which I did. 

“It’s my day off from work,” I say to Felix, “and I’ve just decided that from now on, that also includes no house chores. In fact, I might start taking whole weekends off.”

Felix chortles. “You? The workaholic? What’s gotten into you, Mom?”

“I just don’t feel like obsessing about work anymore,” I say plainly, which pummels me to the core, for work has always been my salvation against laziness. I blink rapidly to stop the burning sensation in my eyes. Lizzie’s efficient assistance had freed up so much time for me, and how did I spend it? By feverishly expanding my coaching business with more clients and rushing to finalize my online program about work-life balance (ironic, I know).

I compose myself, and say: “I just want to enjoy this Sunday with my tall, handsome son.” 

Felix rolls his eyes, but I see a tiny smile of pleasure on his face.

Outside, the weather is perfect—sunny and slightly crisp like a chilled Californian Sauvignon Blanc. Across the street on the sidewalk, I see Pete in his baseball cap walking his greyhound. I wave at him but he doesn’t see me.

“Why aren’t we driving?” Felix asks, as we stand on the sidewalk. “We’re not walking to Venice, are we?”

I grin. “I was thinking of renting a couple of bikes to ride down The Strand. Remember how we used to do that when you were little? You loved that.”

“When I was little,” Felix grumbles. He walks slightly behind me for the four blocks to the bicycle rental shop near the beach.

***

“Dad, I went biking today. And we ate at this fusion restaurant. They make the best Korean tacos. Even better than Mom’s. Sorry, Mom.” Felix glances at me with a puckish smile. “Finals are next week, then I have spring break. … I don’t know, I’ll probably just come home and…” Felix glances at me again. “Maybe take a road trip?”

I nod in pleasant surprise.

“Dad, I have to drive back to my dorm now. Here’s Mom.”

“Hold on a sec,” I say to Carlos on speaker. I go to hug Felix goodbye as he grabs his bags of clean laundry in the hallway. Then I sit back down on the couch to talk to my husband. “Carlos, I just got an idea. Instead of a road trip, what if Felix and I came to visit you on board for a few days? Would they allow two guests in your cabin?”

“It’s not allowed,” Carlos says.

“Are you sure? Could you ask someone? Or maybe I can make some calls.”

“Beth, don’t.” There’s a sharpness to his voice that wasn’t there when he was talking with Felix. 

“Carlos, is everything all right?”

He doesn’t respond right away. When he does, his tone changes again. Haltingly, he says, “Beth— I have to tell you something.”

I suck in air. “What is it?”

I can hear Carlos breathing on the speaker. I try to recall the last time I heard him breathing next to me in bed. During the pandemic, I’d insisted on switching up from our queen-size to a king-size bed so that I didn’t have to hear his guttural breaths so close to my ear. “That’s a waste of money,” he’d grumbled, “the lockdown will be over soon and I’ll be out of your hair again.” He eventually gave in though since I was paying for the bed with my money. But now, all I want is to wrap my arms around his squishy, lumpy body—which is probably not so lumpy anymore. Video calls are unreliable with the ship’s wifi, so we talk by phone. I haven’t seen what Carlos looks like in over three months. 

“Carlos,” I say, before he speaks again. “Can you send me a selfie? I want to see your face.”

“Why? You’ll see me in a few weeks.”

“I know, but I miss you.”

He responds with silence. 

Now I’m the one breathing loudly. I just lost Lizzie; I can’t lose anything else. “Carlos, what’s going on? Talk to me.”

Carlos sighs audibly. “I can’t do this anymore, Beth. I… met someone else. On the ship. She works in one of the galleys. One of the line cooks. I wanted to tell you in person.”

“I see.” I try to stay calm; to swim towards the shore of reason. “I did wonder about that. Affairs in such close quarters are probably common.”

“It’s not just an affair, Beth.”

“Don’t—”

“I love her.”

“No, you don’t.”

“What?”

I gasp for breath. “I mean, you love me. You’ve always loved me. You always complain that I don’t love you as much as you love me. But that’s not true, Carlos. I do love you. Maybe I can come on board without Felix. Like I used to do before we had him, remember? We had so much fun, remember? Though back then you had a cabin mate. A little awkward! Like having sex in the college dorms, haha. I think Felix will be fine being in the apartment by himself for a week. Maybe I’ll buy him a bicycle. He really got into it today, like when he was little. Remember the bike we got him for Christmas—”

“Beth, stop.”

With those two words, the shoreline vanishes. I can’t feel the ground beneath me. My life as I know it is receding from me, like it no longer belongs to me; as though unknowingly I’d only been leasing my life all this time. And now I have to return it for a downgrade. 

“I lost Lizzie today,” I say to Carlos.

There’s a pause. “Who’s Lizzie?”

“You never met her,” I say. “I think you would’ve liked her. I don’t know why I never told you about her. I meant to. I think I was jealous that you’d end up loving her more than me.”

“What are you talking about? Never mind. My contract ends soon. We can discuss things then. In person. I better go now. This call is costing me.”

“I’ll pay for it,” I offer.

“No,” says Carlos, and hangs up.

I stare at the empty TV once more as I slouch down further on the dust-loving navy blue couch. The cushions are velvety soft. I can’t stop stroking them. My cheeks are dry but my eyes are burning, while my mind tries to console me with recent images of Felix and me—laughing when our bikes nearly collided trying to avoid an oncoming rollerblader; and sitting at the popular dining terrace sharing a Dalgona coffee flan which I loved and he claimed to hate but kept eating.

My mind drifts back to Lizzie and our last video chat, and her painting. I jump off the couch and rush to my office closet. On the computer, I open my photo file from yesterday. And there she is. There we are, the Before and After. Me in my comically incongruous button-up shirt with gray sweat pants and Lizzie in a slim, burgundy pantsuit. We’re holding hands and smiling, walking through a fantasy garden of perfectly symmetrical blooms—or maybe Lizzie thought that’s how flowers actually look. I notice for the first time that she titled the painting “Lizbeth.” I like that. Lizbeth. It has a nice ring to it; I might start calling myself Lizbeth from now on. 

I start thinking… Lizzie created this painting. And since she’s me, doesn’t this indicate that I too have it in me to create with watercolors, if I put in the effort? And doesn’t this also mean that I too can get back in shape, like she did? I wonder if… Yes, her workout videos are still here! All saved in my video files. I’m thrilled. I haven’t watched any of them yet because I’d been too busy. Well, I’ll make the time now. I count almost seventy videos, each nearly an hour long. It’s a daily tracking of her progress. But then I notice something. These are not just workout videos, though she titled them as such: Workout #7-Life; Workout #14-Love, and so on, including topics on Money, Health, Friendships, Hobbies, Family, and Marriage. There’s even one on a guide to Online Gaming. I can’t stop laughing and tearing up. She’s thought of everything. A surge of gratitude towards Lizzie buoys me up. I can picture me and Felix—who’d cackle in surprise and disbelief at first—playing and competing on his online games together, with larger-than-life avatars that look nothing like us.