Hey, James! It’s me! You know. Me. Me, me. Ivanna Dikinmi?

Sorry. This is awkward. We, uh, you know. On a raft? That was also a car? That you drove straight into the water?

You don’t remember driving an Aston Martin straight of a cliff, into a large body of water, only for it to implausibly transform into a submarine and then an inflatable raft?

No? Oh. Okay. Weird. Because I’ve never been able to forget that. I’m now afraid of water. And cars. And rafts.

That exact scenario has happened to you more than once?

Okay, now I’m feeling a little bad. Because—this is embarrassing—I thought we had a connection. You really didn’t feel anything for me as we made love on that raft? You didn’t even feel anything when moments after that henchmen in vermillion hazmat suits captured us and took us to a lair built on the inside of a radioactive volcano?

I don’t think I’m making this up here. It seemed like you were actually into me. Like, in a long-term way. You—You grabbed my hand when we were forced to dress up in metallic retro-futuristic clothing and have dinner with a strangely calm psychopath. You looked at me for reassurance when he explained his elaborate plan to blackmail the Soviet Union and the United States into starting WW III.

I’m sorry, how are you blanking on that man? He was 6′ 8” and had metal legs? He tried to drown us in smelted gold? One of his eyeballs was replaced with a diamond?

I don’t understand how you have zero object permanence on what I—up until just now—thought would be a once-in-a-lifetime event. I have dreams of you calling me to tell me you love me. And I have nightmares about that eye.

You comforted me when he tied us to a nuclear bomb on a rocket. You came back to save me when you cut our ropes with a laser in your tooth. You told me you loved me when we escaped using your ballpoint pen that allowed us to breathe in space.

Am I crazy for thinking that was the beginning of a serious relationship?

You know what. This is on me. For not listening to my gut. It was honestly a red flag when you made a joke about my last name—which I really don’t get, because it’s a common Slavic name. I went to school with eight other Ivanna Dikinmis.

God, I’m such an idiot for thinking that you were going to call me after made love all weekend in the Tahitian wilderness after we fell back to Earth—on top of the nuclear bomb, by the way, which in hindsight, was extremely reckless. Especially since you incorporated it into our sex.

I get it now. This is what you do. You go out every weekend and wrestle a shark that’s also a bioweapon then have sex with any exotic yet rustic orphan with supermodel looks. That’s just Saturday night to you? Well, not for me! I don’t have sex while strapped to a jet pack with just anyone! I’m different. Ivanna Dikinmi isn’t someone who’s just thirsty for penises.

I’m over it! If you ever do remember me or my number, do me a favor and don’t call me on your shoe phone. I won’t be there to answer. I’ll have moved on, and it’ll be with someone named Gary.