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Hunt for a weird request worth doing. Keyword, category, price, or how soon it ends. Your call.
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The word is "almost". From a withheld number, 11:47pm exactly, every Thursday for four weeks. He'll know who. He always knew. Don't say anything else. Don't breathe heavy. Just the word. Then the line goes dead. Four calls total. I'll pay all four up front.
Don't speak to him. Don't look at him. Be unbelievably in his peripheral vision for forty minutes. He has a tell when he's nervous — I want to know if you trigger it. I'll be the woman at the door watching. Leave when I leave. Don't turn around on your way out.
I'll send the original photograph. Oil on canvas, A3, signed on the back. Same composition, same shadows, same expression on my face. Just no groom. Ship insured to a P.O. box I'll provide. He won't see it for two years. Then he will.
She kept one letter from 1972, before my father. Smoker's voice, mid-Atlantic accent, no rushing. I'll send the scan plus three voice references from old films. MP3, ~4 minutes. She turns 80 in October. This goes on a thumb drive in the card. Don't mess this up.
Vintage 1982, size 6, ivory. I ship it; you ship it back. Any field, any walking pace. One take, horizontal MP4, 90 seconds. No words, no smile, no looking at the camera. She turns 70 in October. She doesn't know we're doing this.
Public venue, forty-seven people from 2009 who will interrogate you. I'll send a nine-page document — memorize it. Look at me the way they need to see someone looking at me. Touch my back when you laugh. Don't kiss me unless I do it first. There is one specific person I need to see watching. You'll know him.
She loved peonies. She also disowned me in 2012. We never spoke again. I'm not ready to visit. You go. Photograph the bouquet against the headstone. Don't read the inscription out loud. Don't tell me what it says. Twenty-six deliveries. I prepay all of them, today.
Twelve years married. He sleeps with his phone face-down. Call from a withheld number, ask for him by his middle name (which only one person ever used), say "we said next Tuesday" and hang up. He spends the night quietly losing his mind. We are fine. He knows we're fine. He just doesn't know about this. Yet.
I'll tell you the thing. Two pages, her cadence (I'll send three of her old letters as reference), longhand only. Photograph each page. Mail to me. I'm going to read it once and then I'll be done. She's been dead nine years and I'm done waiting.
Any slow song. Phone propped on the counter. One continuous take, no edits, three full minutes. Bare feet, t-shirt to mid-thigh, nothing we shouldn't see. We're seeing a person remembering someone who isn't there. Vertical MP4. No music rights, no problem — sing it.
Each envelope contains a single Polaroid of my husband as a baby, lifted from her own album she gave me. She'll notice around week six. She'll bring it up to him around week fourteen. He'll never figure out it was me. Fifty-two envelopes, prepaid, planned. Worth every cent.
Reservation for one, 8pm Saturday, black tie. Three courses minimum. At dessert, you cry — visibly but quietly — for ninety seconds. Then pay the bill and leave. Send the receipt and one phone-shot from your table. I Venmo the meal plus the fee. Don't make the staff uncomfortable. Just have a moment.
Polite. Slightly bored. "Just confirming Mrs. Bell's standing weekly arrangement — the name on the card has changed this year, did you want the new name on file?" Don't supply the name. Wait for her to ask. She won't. There is no order. There is, definitely, a name. Five minutes, record the call.
He says his year abroad was uneventful. My mom doesn't believe him. I don't either. Call as Hélène, soft voice, leave a voicemail in slow English with a real French accent: "Marc, I still have the photograph." That's the whole line. He's a good sport. He'll laugh eventually. Eventually.
The sentence is: "Just tell him Lauren called." Then hang up before they can ask which Lauren — he's had three. Pick whichever Lauren you sound like. I want to hear which one he calls back first. Don't record. I'll text you the office number Monday morning.
I'll send a high-res scan. Clean up the linework for stick-and-poke, size it for my inner forearm, but keep absolutely his handwriting. The note is six words. I get it next month. Vector + PNG. No fonts. Just his hand. Don't add anything to it. Anything.
I'll send the text. Sixty-four words. Read it the way it should have been said, sitting across a table, on a Sunday morning. No theatrics. No music. Just the truth, slow. MP3, ~90 seconds. I want to hear what closure would have sounded like.
Lipstick. Earrings. The dress. The perfume. Then sit on the edge of the bed and make the call. One continuous take, vertical MP4, four minutes minimum, sound on. We never hear who's on the other end. We watch your face change. You hang up. You take the lipstick off. End on black.
It's a Polaroid of an empty chair in a restaurant he used to take someone to. The restaurant closed in 2019. I have 52 identical prints. Mail them from 52 different cities — your friends, family, conferences, whatever it takes. By April he'll be asking around. By August he won't anymore. By December he'll be a different man.
Portable speaker, the song I'll send, fourteen minutes flat. He'll see you. He'll know who sent you. He may come outside. He won't say anything. You won't either. Phone footage of his window light coming on — that's the deliverable. Then you leave. Once. Just once.
She still has it in the front hall closet. She knows you're coming. She does not know what's in it. Neither do I. Pack it for shipping without opening. Photograph the closet before you leave. I'll cover the courier and the awkward small talk. Two-hour visit max. Don't accept the coffee.
Sixty minutes, audio only. I'm in a relationship and I'm pretending it's fine. You're a stranger with no skin in the game. Tell me, gently, all the things my friends won't say. Be a mirror. Be merciless. I'll be in a parked car. Don't let me change the subject.
About 1,400 words. He cheated once, in 2017. We recovered. I want it written. Out loud. In front of everyone we love. I'll give you the facts. You give me the speech. He'll thank me one day. Probably. Plain text doc. I read it in August.
My father died in 2008. She's seeing someone new. The vows are hers, word for word — I'll send a scan. Read them to camera, looking straight down the lens, replacing my father's name with his. We're screening it at her surprise engagement dinner. Horizontal MP4, no music, ~3 minutes.
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