#“But I do have one regret: I��ll never be able to read that novel you complete one day” GIRL???????????

[padawanlost]

hi!! i adore your blog!!

i’m sorry if this is query is too long to make sense of but i was wondering, since you’re such a well or prequels knowledge and the 2003/5 clone wars has just arrived to d*sney+, what the canon story is for when palpatine was “kidnapped” by grievous immediately before RoTS?

as far as i can tell, there are seemingly several versions?? or am i mistaken? there’s the 2003/5 version and the filoni!clone wars season 7 version (i’ve yet to read luceno’s labyrinth of evil so i don’t know if that has any bearing on my question), as well as the RoTS novelisation — but that introduction is less focussed on the attack on the senate itself and more on how the galaxy reacts to the whole ordeal.

(there have also been several debates on whether or not the 2003/5 clone wars are considered “canon”, which can be factored into discussion, but i personally do consider them to be canon (if not spaced out somewhat oddly, if we’re to believe they coincide with filoni’s canon))

additionally, there’s the question of shaak ti’s “death” on grievous’ invisible hand; whether it actually even happened or not. there’s been debates over her canon death for years now and i’ve never truly gotten a straight answer.

i, and many others apparently, don’t believe that grievous killed her on the invisible hand (THAT death only serves to further goad obi-wan and anakin into wanting to bring the general to justice, which is referenced with the scene in filoni’s tcw where grievous crushes a clone trooper’s skull and obi-wan informs him that “[grievous]’ll regret that”), nor do i believe that she survived order 66, in the pursuit of training a padawan on felucia and then dying by the hands of vader’s secret apprentice starkiller. circling back to the RoTS novelisation, shaak ti is there to keep a watchful eye on anakin and try to keep him from leaving the temple while under lockdown (i’m afraid that’s all i remember of her in the book lol).

at the very end of the 2005 micro-series, anakin and obi-wan are informed by mace windu that the chancellor has been taken hostage before they leave to pursue him – leading directly into RoTS. i personally believe that this aspect of the micro-series is no longer canon, since this is erased with tcw season 7 when anakin, obi-wan and ahsoka are forced to end their reunion prematurely.

one final question (sorry again; i feel like i’ve been asking more than fair, and this has already grown into a tangent) are there other aspects of the 2003/5 clone wars that you believe are no longer canon? what with tcw and d*sney now being unanimously considered to be the True Canon��️, while earlier clone wars material are now only legends.

look forward to hearing your reply!! 💝

Hi! Sorry for taking so long :(

There’s a lot to unpack here so I’ll try to give you a timeline, maybe it’ll be easer to understand what happened

2003 -2008

What was canon? Everything officially released by Lucasfilm, unless stated it wasn’t canon by official sources. Novels, comics, movies, shows, games, etc. Everything was canon, save a few exceptions.

What happened? Palpatine was kidnapped by Grievous before the beginning of ROTS. Shaak Ti was one of the many Jedi sent to rescue the Chancellor. She wasn’t able to rescue Palpatine or kill Grievous but she survived the Ordeal and was alive during the events of ROTS. these events are called the Battle of Coruscant and they were portrayed in Clone Wars (2003) and Labyrinth of Evil by James Luceno.  

During the production of ROTS (2005) they had to different death scenes for her. In one she would die by Grievous hands during the Battle of Coruscant. The other would have her be killed by Anakin/Vader during the attack on the Temple. Both ideas were scrapped and neither were considered canon.

So, technically, Shaak Ti survived the events of the Revenge of the Sith (2005). In 2008 The Clone Wars were released. As informed by Lucasfilm everything previously released that clash with what was being portrayed with TCW was no longer canon. But because TCW never clashed with Clone Wars (2003) or the movies on this particular subject, it doesn’t influence Shaak Ti’s fate. Also in 2008 the game Star Wars: The Force Unleashed was released where Shaak Ti officially dies after a fight with Star killer.

2012 - ...

That was her canonical death until 2012 when Disney bought Star Wars and made everything, with the exception of the movies and TCW, non-canon. 

‘Fun’ fact: TCW (2008) did show a vision of Shaak Ti being killed by Anakin/Vader during Order 66 (based on the ROTS deleted scene) but because it was a vision and not an actual death scene, I don’t think it counts (in terms of Original canon). 

However, those episodes were released after the Disney purchase so at the time everything previously published that could contradict this was no longer canon. i’m not 100% sure but i think Shaak Ti dies, in Disney’s canon, during Order 66 because of the events mentioned above. They used that vision to ‘explain’ her death.

PS:

The Battle of Coruscant remains canon to this day. The shows/novels don’t contradict the movies because this is what happened:

Anakin and Obi-wan were away from Coruscant, reunited with Ahsoka.

Grievous and Dooku arrive on Coruscant, kidnap the Chancellor and the Jedi Council goes to the rescue.

Before Anakin and Ahsoka can properly reconnect, he and Obi-wan are told about the Chancellor and return to Coruscant to help.

Clone Wars (2003) we see what happens in Coruscant;

Revenge of the Sith (2005) we see what happened immediately after anakin and Obi-wan arrive on the planet.

The Clone Wars (2020) we see them leaving to Coruscant and what happens to Ahsoka.

[monster-bait]

Soooo 👀 you got anymore HCs up your sleeve on Rukh? He has been living rent free in my brain for a while now (like a lot of your OCs!)😅🤩😍

Here are some HCs for Rukh, our favorite gruff bartender in the GW universe. (I've already started writing a small one-shot of Rukh's job interview with Tate, because once I started writing these, I couldn't get the idea out of my head! That will be posting to Patreon shortly!)

If you're interested in learning more about any of my existing characters, all ko-fi contributions earn a headcanon! (Higher amounts will be more detailed!)

Previous Rukh headcanons, including the extremely memorable moment of IvyMemnoch finding a Celtic flute version of Despacito (my fav Tumblr moment of the year, by far! 😂) can be found here

RUKH

Had never heard of the tiny resort town where the Pixie is located before responding to the job listing, despite the fact that he lives in neighboring Starling Heights. He’d been working in one of those quick-service garages before then—an embarrassing waste of his skills, but he figured with his prison record, he was lucky to find a job at all. He’d not been planning on leaving his position, was only looking for a part-time gig, but the job post for the Pixie was too intriguing to scroll past—it was written in Orcish, practically unheard in a mixed-species society, catching his eye immediately. Unlike the other half-a-dozen bartender help wanted ads he’d looked at, the Pixie’s post said nothing about requiring an “upbeat personality” or his “smile being part of the dress code,” all descriptors that made him cringe. Punctuality, accountability, and an authoritative presence were the expectations, experience a plus but not required...it was straightforward and direct., it was clearly directed at orcs...he fit the bill, he thought. He considered himself to have a finely-tuned bullshit meter, and the Pixie’s ad didn’t set it off at all

He has since admitted to himself that he has fallen for Tate’s particular brand of bullshit repeatedly over the years

Rukh is a very tightly closed book. He’s definitely the strong silent type and is not at all comfortable talking about himself. (Despite that, he spilled his guts and told Tate his whole life story during his job interview—falling for the bullshit instance #1)

He discovered a love of reading during his incarceration, one he didn’t possess in his younger days. When he moved to Starling Heights, he was low-key delighted to find his apartment was on the same block as the library. He prefers mysteries and crime novels to anything overly literary, doesn’t have the patience for the endless world-building of high fantasy, and enjoys a wide spectrum of non-fiction. It’s become a game of sorts, engaging Ainsley in conversation and being able to not only keep up, but add his own insights and facts.

Another mental game he likes to play is trying to pinpoint Tate’s actual age. He’d never come right out and ask but sometimes Tate will chime into conversations knowing things he just...shouldn’t, or else will make references to things that Rukh can barely remember from his *own* childhood, things he remembers his parents reminiscing over. He’s added some Celtic history books to his rotation and surreptitiously jots down notes on the random head-scratchers Tate will casually drop and follows rabbit holes looking into said notes...as a result, he’s even more spooked by Tate than he was before he started snooping 😂

When Rukh first started at the Pixie, he thought they would fail. He was positive about it. Too small, in the middle of nowhere, an owner who very quickly made enemies with most of the people in town...he was shocked when the old girl's business plan actually fell into place. Shocked and thrilled, of course. He loves having a routine, loves having a reason to get up and feel energized every day, likes the clientele and takes his job of overseeing the “sightseers” during tourist season seriously. Since the bar turns a respectable profit, they're constantly receiving promotional odds and ends, which is how Rukh wound up with a Bourbon of the Month club subscription for a free year. (Tate hissed like a cat and shooed the offending pamphlet away as though it might bite.) He continued the subscription once the free year ended, and looks forward to his monthly ritual—he waits until his night off, puts on some moody jazz, cracks open the month’s bottle, and enjoys it with a cigar. Thessa referred to it as a self-care routine once, after asking him about his plans for the night, and he nearly turned inside out in mortification.

He doesn’t talk about his time in prison, nor the crime he committed to wind up there. Tate is the only one who knows, and Rukh is happy to keep it that way. It’s not that he regrets the act itself all that much—he has no remorse for his brother, but rather the way it fractured their family, upended his life, and had branded him as someone to be wary of since his release.

That being said...things he did pick up during his incarceration—the ability to keep his head down and just get by, the knowledge that sometimes you simply need to kick someone’s ass, and the value of tidiness—are assets at the Pixie.

Loves nothing more than his solitary days at the Pixie during the off-season. The night-time regulars, while they consistently fill the cash till, are still a handful. He loves the quiet of the daytime, the handful of day drinkers, the time to hear himself think without needing to watch over every aspect of the business. Speaking of which—he knows how to do everything in the Pixie. The ordering, the inventory, the budgets, the schedules, the upkeep...he's not entirely sure why, as Tate very much micro-manages every bit of the day-to-day management, but it was something the boy insisted on and Rukh wasn't about to argue. "Someone needs to be able to take care of her if I'm not here anymore," was the only answer he got, and he decided it was easier not to ask questions. Since Silva has been on the scene, Rukh has been left to his own devices more often and it is *bliss.*

He thought he'd left his days of vice behind him. He drank, he smoked, he dabbled in recreational drugs, he worked on souped-up hot rods and bet on drag racing...prison changed all that and his life afterward left little room for any of it...but Tate and Ainsley are terrible terrible influences. Gamblers and hustlers, he has someone to talk cars with again, to trade intel on illegal street racing with, the chance to get his hands just a littttle bit dirty again, and he loves it

Smokey blues, soulful R&B, moody rock

Sloooow dancing

He is *incredibly* protective of Elshona. He’s the first person who meets her once she arrives in her new home, and he recognizes the fear in her eyes. He’s the only one who understands what it means to be cast out of one’s community, he knows what it means to have to start over again. He doesn’t understand the relationship she has with Tate, doesn’t know all of the details of her expulsion and shunning from her clan, but he’s made a quiet promise to himself that she’ll never be left to flounder completely alone again.

Has a FWB relationship with a half-troll woman in his building. Single mom, splits custody with her ex, so has several nights a week free, and she’ll spend one of them in his bed. It’s casual and neither of them is interested in pursuing more, but it’s occasional companionship and scratches an itch.

He's not immune to the plethora of easy sex the commune attracts. There would be hell to pay if the staff acted on anything beyond mild flirtation at the Pixie, but he'd be a liar if he said he hadn't drifted down to the parties and pool-side bar before to check things out. He's been on the receiving end of more than one edge of the party blowjob to know how addictive that sort of access to easy sex could be; he sees the commune residents and the reckless way they behave and knows how easy it would be to slip into that lust-crazed mindset, and makes a point of only indulging in visiting that side of the resort occasionally

He much prefers to find his partners the old fashioned way: closer to home, in one of the dimly lit little pubs around his neighborhood. He loves the adrenaline rush of a flirtation turning into close talking and lingering hands, that first heat-filled kiss. He doesn't mind the evening ending back at his or her place, he's not picky, and prefers to savor the night (as opposed to the fast, anonymous sex at the commune parties.) Ladies on top or old-fashioned missionary, any position that lets him see their faces: heads dropped back, faces screwed up in ecstasy, that moment when they come...he'll take that over a blow job in the dark any day of the week

A skill that Tate possesses that Rukh greatly admires and strives to emulate: easy banter which leads to confidences shared. They were talking about cars one minute, and in the next Rukh was revealing the details of the day he killed his brother, the shunning of his clan which followed, and his incarceration. He left that initial interview feeling shaken, positive that he'd been the victim of fae magic...but he's come to realize that there is truth in the old adage of hairstylists and barkeeps being the keepers of the whole town's secrets. Tate knows everything about everyone, is able to tease out information as casually as pouring the next drink, and Rukh has begun to employ the same tactics. He was shocked to find that it actually works. As the years have gone on, he's improved his game and knows much about all of the Pixie's regulars, hears the commune gossip and news from town, and is gleeful with the power of being able to pass on information that the Pixie can use to leverage her business.

There is very little that scares him in this world. Possessions are just things and things can be replaced, he's been in fights with bigger, meaner dudes than the Pixie's roughest patrons, and he's not afraid to meet his maker. He's let go of the past and the people in it and tries to live life one day at a time, and that's not a mindset that lends itself to fear much. Tate is a wholly different story. Rukh knew his type in prison: those who viewed other people as pawns, who traded and secrets gossip to advance their own positions; had a minotaur cellmate who was that sort and he got his ass kicked on the regular for it. He knew a lizardman who was as slippery, who contorted himself in and out of trouble, ingratiating himself with the guards and the inmates of the upper echelons to hold himself out of real hot water...but he's never met anyone with the same capacity for mischief and spite as his current employer, has never met anyone so terrifyingly adept at causing trouble while staying out of it. The boy isn't overly concerned about making enemies or worrying about his own hide and wreaks havoc for havoc's sake, and Rukh might be impressed if he didn't actually care about him. Silva is, in Rukh's opinion, Tate's perfect match. A sweet little angel, an absolute beauty, wide-eyed and innocent looking and, Rukh (rightly) suspects, just as shrewd and self-preserving as Tate. He has a feeling the entire town will be set ablaze if/when their relationship consumes itself, and only hopes it happens on his day off.

I hope you enjoyed this little peek into a character who doesn't get as much page time as some of his peers! If you'd like a headcanon of your own, visit my ko-fi! Thanks so much, IvyMemnoch!

[joestories]

Facsimile (2010–2012)

"Is that a book you're carrying?"

I nervously shift the heavy volume to my side, out of sight.

"Well," says Arnen, "I think it's good that you're reading. It will keep your mind on other things, healthy things."

"But I don't think of her that often," I say.

I sit down at my workstation, which is located to the right of Arnen. The office is sparse and gray. In fact, the room I occupy is completely devoid of any noteworthy features besides our two workstations. We had a window, but it was moved to another part of the building months ago.

"I've been seeing someone new," I say. A moment had passed, and Arnen is startled.

He composes himself. "Tell me more," he says.

I'm embarrassed. I shouldn't have said that. So I explain to Arnen that I will tell him more when the time is right. There is someone, but he wouldn't understand. I change the subject, showing him the book.

I discovered the book while walking to work earlier that morning. It was sitting in a cardboard box full of junk down the street from my apartment. It was a Hemingway novel. An obscure one.

Hemingway, I have been told, was famous for a writing style that made the reader feel as if the story were being recounted to them by a close friend. This explains why, in many secondhand Hemingway books, one will often find at the end, written gently with a pencil, the words thank you.

But this isn't a story about Hemingway. This is a story about a girl. I would see her almost everyday.

She's not a real person. She's a cardboard cutout.

She stands alongside cardboard cutouts of several identically-dressed workers. They are part of the window display at a popular fruit-themed computer store that I pass every day on my walk to work.

I know this sounds strange. But there is something comforting about her. She was a model, I'm sure, selected carefully by this brand to represent the type of non-threatening, non-judgmental service that one may find within the walls of their store. But that doesn't matter. She has become part of my daily routine. She is comforting. Disarming.

I feel like she expects me to be my best self. So I am reading. But Hemingway is not at all what I expected.

The novel is called My Gross Hands. The evening after I discover it, I begin to read.

It tells the story of a man whose identity has seemingly escaped him. He wanders from town to town, always unwittingly in the wake of a stranger, a man who looks just like him, and this stranger has started fights with the local thugs and impregnated the local teenage girls in every town he passes through. The protagonist follows in his shadow, facing the consequences of his doppelganger's actions, but never quite catching up with him.

After a particularly vicious beating in a dreary hotel room, he stares at the ground, where his face is reflected in a pool of his own blood. He carefully examines his features. Is he himself? Is he the impostor?

My own reflection stares blankly at me from my workstation's screen. The pleasant hum emitted by the screen is interrupted as Arnen rolls his chair over to me.

It's been a week, and Arnen wants to know how things are going with the girl. I answer noncommittally, and he is not satisfied. He asks her name. I can't produce one.

This doesn't bother him. It seems like this may have been what he expected to hear. He tells me about a website he uses to meet women. I tell him I'm not interested.

He slides back to his workstation and types furiously. I try to pretend he's gone back to his work.

Minutes later, he announces that I he has made me a profile on AccuDate. I tell him no thanks, but he says it's too late. He jots something on a scrap of paper and thrusts it into my limp hand.

"Your account information," he tells me. "You are going to thank me someday. Or perhaps you won't be able to."

"Won't be able to?"

He motions to the floor. Arnen's area is demarcated with a line of tape that extends to each wall.

"They're going to build a wall here."

With a degree of uncertainty, I pocket the note.

At home, I continue with the book. The story is engaging, yet somewhat confusing. I am surprised by the frequent spelling and grammatical errors I encounter. Hemingway, it would seem, was not quite the master of the English language that his reputation suggests.

I am able to dismiss these concerns for a while.

But a few days later I am squinting at the cover with a dismayed expression on my face. The author, I discover, is not Hemingway, but actually someone with the deceptively similar name of Hemingwade. I am dejected. I have invested a lot of time in this book.

What would the girl in the window think? I know that if I could see her face right now, she'd be wearing the same lopsided grin as always. There was knowledge behind that smile. She has been in the world and she has known its ways, and she had not let it damage her.

This is an unhealthy thought.

Arnen was right. Time to move on. Tomorrow, I will put this book back on the curb where I found it and I will walk a new route to work. Tonight, my gross hands find the scrap of paper. I will use my computer to seek the approval of female strangers.

This is where the things take an interesting turn.

AccuDate features lots of pleasing, neutral colors, and the people who populate the site seem to have adapted their personalities to match. I take to populating my vacant profile. I spend 3,000 credits to begin browsing local single girls.

Twenty minutes later, I spot her. The girl from the window.

Here she is, online. Living in my city. She's not an actress. She actually works in the very store that I walk by everyday. I pore over her profile. I devour it.

The information, while scant, is subjected to much scrutiny. Her favorite movies are unchallenging, but beloved by most. I am less familiar with her favorites bands, but they are likely of a similar stock. For the first time I am able to see what she looks like from other angles. It's intoxicating.

This is a living human, with all the problems that come with living humans. I don't know what to do.

I completely forget my plan to discard the book and find a new route to the office.

I arrive at work the next morning and observe that a wall is indeed going up around Arnen's desk, though its purpose is unclear. A wooden skeleton has been erected during the weekend. Arnen sits at his workstation within, as if caged.

Standing on the outside of the wooden frame, I explain my situation with the girl. Initially I try to present it in a way that makes me seem normal, but Arnen is not grasping the gravity of the situation. So I explain about the cardboard cutout. My face reddens.

"I'll help you write that message," he says. "What do you have so far?" I tell him the only line I'm certain about is this: "I've already written your biography in my head dozens of times."

"We have our work cut out for us," he says.

But we get there.

Seven hours elapse between when I sent of my message and when I received a response.

Antonia was her name, and her message was simple. Perhaps too simple. "Wanna hang out tomorrow? Would you mind if I take some time to go home and change out of my work clothes?"

Yes and yes.

I meet her the next day. She's dressed exactly like the cardboard version of her that resides in the window. It's uncanny. The cardboard version has come to life. And it has a life, and an identity, and it knows my name.

We walk to a nearby hamburger place.

As soon as we're seated, I start to feel disappointment creeping in. Our conversation is awkward. Gone is the playful stoicism that had become a daily staple. She does not see my soul.

I ask her what kind of music she likes.

"I like those old time crooners," she says.

"I don't like them. I feel like those songs are insulting towards women."I regret saying this immediately.

"I guess I never thought about it like that," she says with a shrug. "What about you?"

I tell her I like music where the tempo changes, but it only gets faster. Never slower. This is an attempt at being lighthearted, but she just slowly nods in response.

By the end of our date, I get the impression she doesn't really want to see me again. So I'm somewhat surprised when she suggests we meet again in a few days. I agree.

I go home confused. I couldn't quite connect with her. But there's something there, something I can't quite explain.

I decide to do some snooping. I google her and discover a blog, and notice that an entry has just been posted.

It describes the date. She says that I was a gentleman, and she compliments my looks repeatedly. She describes me as hilarious, even though I don't recall making her laugh during our date.

As I finish reading, I find myself even more confused.

At the office, the wall surrounding Arnen is now waist-high. There appear to be no provisions for a way into or out of the space it's enclosing. Arnen seems unconcerned. I describe my date to him.

He's not surprised. "Women are complicated," he says. "Do something physical. You'll need to be the aggressive one. Look for an opening. How's the book?"

I realize I'm still carrying around the copy of My Gross Hands. I tell him it's good.

That evening, I'm hunched in front of my tiny computer when I learn that Hemingwade was a con man. He discovered his name was an asset when Hemingway began gaining prominence. With the help of a crooked publisher, he was able to create knock-offs of Hemingway's novels that were released mere days before their genuine counterparts, where they were accidentally purchased by people who did not scrutinize their covers very carefully.

The books had to look authentic, both inside and out. Hemingwade, while a con man, believed in the craftsmanship of his work. The pages, he reasoned, could not be blank. And they could not be something that may be easily recognized as a fraud. And so each time, he took it upon himself to write a novel that was as close as possible to the genuine article.

Because he was often working with limited information about the story he was meant to be mimicking, he would fill in the missing pieces with his own interpretations. The endings were always fabricated by Hemingwade. His endings were fantastical, differing greatly from the original text. Spontaneous combustion. An enormous wave of molasses killing everyone in its path. The protagonist revealing himself to be a highly intelligent android from the future. Spider-like creatures emerging from a crack in the earth in reclaim the planet as their own. Inanimate objects coming to life and speaking. That last one was sort of the Hemingwade's signature move. It seemed to turn up near the end of many of his fabrications.

His protagonists also have the bad habit of saying loud the exact theme of the novel in the final pages. But still, for a con man, this is pretty good.

This is all on Wikipedia, by the way.

My second date with Antonia takes place at a carnival that has recently sprouted up near the waterfront. I'm immediately put off by her attire. Even though the weather is mild, she has a scarf wrapped tightly around her face.

I remember Arnen telling me to be aggressive. I imagine tearing the scarf away. Would she be wowed? Probably not. I might break her neck. So instead I ask if she'd like to loosen her scarf, and she says no thanks. Her voice is muffled by the scarf.

We walk around for a while, and our conversation is even more labored than usual, as I have trouble understanding her through the scarf. We arrive at the ferris wheel, and she gets excited. "I'm afraid of heights," I say.

"I'm not!"

So we ride the ferris wheel. I attempt to sit next to her, but she demands I sit across from her, reasoning that distributing our weight will put less strain on the ancient ferris wheel. The ride begins and I feel nauseous.

She asks if I'm reading anything. I have to think about that question for a long time.

"No," I say. "But I want to."

When the ride is over, I feel dizzy. She wants to play the carnival games. I take a few steps in her direction, then vomit down the front of my shirt. She's speechless.

I know there's no chance of wooing her now, so I tell her I think I should go home.

"Okay, but can I see you again? How about Friday night?"

I agree and run away.

There's a new entry on Antonia's blog that evening. She talks about our magical evening at the carnival. She says I was a gentleman, and was willing to take her on any ride she wanted, no matter the cost.

Thankfully there is no mention of the vomiting. It ends with the sentence: Is this what falling in love feels like?

I stare, incredulous.

At work, the wall around Arnen almost reaches the ceiling. I can't see him any more, I can only hear him.

"Did you kiss her?"

"No," I say. "There wasn't a chance."

"That's unfortunate."

"She asked if I was reading. Should I tell her about the book?"

"Why wouldn't you?"

"Because I thought I was reading something intelligent, but it was actually the work of a con man. I got conned. I don't want to seem like someone who gets conned easily."

"Do you like her?"

"I think she might be too into me."

On Friday I'm supposed to be meeting Antonia, but I find myself wandering a circuitous route to get to her, which takes me past the store that features her cutout in the window, our point of origin. I realize something is wrong. Her cardboard cutout is gone.

The window display has been changed. I immediately think this must somehow be my fault.

I run around, to the alley behind the store. That's where I find them. All the people from the old window display, stacked up in a dumpster. Without thinking, I run to it. I dig. But she is not present.

There must be others like me out there. Others who harbor strange, pleasant feelings towards this nameless girl. It's not hard to imagine. Perhaps there are many of them, and as soon as the window displays were being changed, their men were ready to retrieve their queen from the trash.

And then I find her. I just didn't dig deep enough. I carefully remove her from the dumpster and slink back to my apartment like a thief or a pervert. I suppose I am both, technically.

I can hear my phone making noises over and over as texts come in, clearly Antonia wondering where I am. I do not touch my phone. I have made my choice. I chose the cardboard cutout. I fall asleep next to it.

In the morning, I visit her blog. I know she will be heartbroken. So I am shocked to read her latest entry. She describes me arriving early to our date the previous night. She says I brought her flowers. She describes the date that was planned. We went to the movie we were supposed to see. I made fun of all the trailers in clever ways. She says I could make seeing a snuff movie fun.

She says she thinks I'm going to propose soon.

I don't know what to do.

Even though it's the weekend, I run to work. I enter my office. The wall is completed. There is no longer any way into Arnen's area.

I yell. I pound on the wall. There's no response.

I leave the office.

There's only one thing left to do. I resume reading My Gross Hands, intent on finishing the book under the watchful eye of my cardboard idol. I decide to read it aloud, so she can enjoy it too. I feel like she deserves to hear it just as much as I do.

I need to know what will become of the impostor.

The last several dozen pages are blank, except for the second to last, which reads, BURN THIS BOOK.

I am out of reading material, and I haven't found anything resembling an answer. I gather my courage, and navigate back to Antonia's blog. She hasn't posted any new entries. I click on her profile.

I stare at her picture. Up close, she seems different. I stare closely at her name. Her last name specifically. Because it's slightly different from what I thought it was.

Under musical interests, she says she doesn't listen to any music that's more than a decade old.

This isn't the girl. It's just someone else, with a similar name and face.

I look at the cardboard cutout of Antonia.

I look at Hemingwade's book.

"I think I get it," I say aloud. "Hemingwade discovered he had a passion for writing. But he had tarnished his reputation by being a con man. This story is his story, the man perpetually living in a shadow, and it's his own fault. He made his choice, and he can't take it back. I did too." The cutout speaks: "Yes, you did. And you'll never see her again."

And with that, both cutout and book burst into flames. They are instantly engulfed, burn to ashes in seconds, and then the fire is extinguished. I would never see Antonia again.

Perhaps she had burst into flames as well.

Addendum: I wrote this when I was living in San Francisco and trying to use online dating for pretty much the first time. I was bad at it. I actually did stumble upon a girl on OkCupid that I had seen as a cardboard cutout in the window of the Apple Store in San Francisco. I felt mildly star-struck by this, and I felt like it was really important to connect with this person. I messaged her to tell her this, that I had seen her in cardboard and that I was writing a short story based on this premise. Of course I never heard back. I hadn't actually intended to write a story with this premise when I messaged her, but then spite got the better of me and I churned one out in the months to follow. I don't think this previously made it out of my drafts, but here it is, an artifact of a certain time period.