Another personal ad.

She sighed. Somehow, she had thought that a landmark number like 100 would bring with it some thrill or excitement, ignite a spark of energy long cooled. But instead it was like the other 99 personal ads whose dynasty had laid the foundation for this perfunctory gesture. She was too busy to dwell on her indifference, however. She opened the text file and began to type the purposely generic message she knew by memory: “Here is what I desire: -Age range 20 to 28, -Can host, -Some educational level, -Tall and athletic—“

She stopped. No, she thought. This was not like the other 99, after all. It was not simply that the moment lacked the pride or the excitement she had hoped for, but she realized suddenly that the events she solicited through those ads had at some point become as joyless as the posting itself. She was not looking forward to it, was an indifferent to it as she was to tying her shoelaces. 99 dates she had been on, and every single one for a clear purpose. She would construct her web, a bullet list of generic qualities and a promise of return investment. She would meet the men for diner or lunch or coffee, dressed in her black [something] dress and [something] heels, and they would tell her how relieved they were to find that she was normal, how they worried that everyone who used Personal Ads was either a pervert or was desperate, how they just wanted a normal meal and a nice conversation.

Then she would ask them if they would like to have sex.

Eventually, they always said yes. She would drive them back to her house, and they would tell her how beautiful it was. What do you do? they ask. You’re not married are you? She would give them a short tour and they would try to tell her about their life or job. And then they would lay down together. In her bedroom, in the pool, on the cool marble kitchen counter. Wherever she wanted, they never said no. She would send them home, then, and she would make herself a sandwich or a cup of coffee and would fall asleep watching a movie. And it was always fun, she found, was always precisely what she needed.

But on this day the house was too quiet, the light too soft, the room too still. Something. She could not bring herself to write the personal. The desire was gone or had shifted.

The window against which her desk sat looked out on the valley. The place where the blanket of grey sky met the expanse of faded green had already obscured in the dimming light, and she could see two small fires in the hills where families must be camping. A pair of thrushes landed quietly on the window sill. They hopped across the wood together, touched for an instant and flew away.

A flock of geese silently exploded into the sky in the distance. Watching them, she grew still. Her breaths deepened and her body relaxed, slowly. First it was as though balls of lead rolled into the tips of her fingers and her toes, and then her arms became heavy, and her chest felt as though it were suspended in water. And she began to separate from herself as though drained through a sifter until only the pulpy core of who she was remained. The moment was strange, and still, and calm and beautiful to her in a way more personal than she knew was possible.

She hit the backspace key on her laptop, and watched the words melt backwards into time until only “Here is what I desire” remained.

“Here is what I desire,” she wrote, suddenly, a deluge pouring out through her fingers across the keyboard. “I desire that you love me, that I love you. That you stay for breakfast and I want you to. I desire a voice in this house besides my own and a pillow to squeeze that will hug me back. I desire a man who is not afraid of my success. I desire to have an interest in such a man myself. I desire respite from the ugliness of the world and of myself. I desire passion and direction, a cold shower to wake me up from the anesthetics of life. I desire—“

Her cell phone sprang to life, vibrating in bursts across the desk. She stopped again and peered down at the illuminated screen. The office.

Moments passed. The geese became specks in the distance and disappeared. The sun set.

Highlighting the message, she hit delete. “Here is what I desire,” she began again, “Age range 20 to 28, -Can Host, -Some Educational Level…”