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Sit three barstools down from my husband next Thursday at 7pm. Wear red. Order what he's drinking.

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.

📍London, England

Call my ex at 11:47pm. Whisper one word. Hang up. Once a week, four weeks.

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.

Repaint my wedding portrait — same dress, same light, same chair. Without him.

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.

Read my mother's old love letter as the man who wrote it

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.

Try on my mother's wedding dress and walk slowly toward camera at golden hour

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.

Be my pretend boyfriend at my high school reunion. Five hours. Don't break character.

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.

📍Brooklyn, NY

Drop one anonymous bouquet of white peonies at my mother's grave every Tuesday for six months

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.

📍Portland, OR

Be my pretend mistress for one eight-minute phone call. He won't fall for it. That's the point.

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.