Work Text:
The agent selling the bungalow wanted an email address at which to contact them. Madame Tracy had taken his phone number and told him she’d call back soon — once they'd decided which email to use.
Mister S (who was taking a nap at the moment) didn’t have one, being suspicious of computers in general and considering email in particular a probable tool of the devil.[1] That left it up to Madame Tracy.
She hesitated.
She had three email addresses, only two of which she’d ever used. Both those two were intended exclusively for correspondence with clients. Sexykittenboots was for one type of client; MysteriesRevealed was for the other.
Neither felt quite right for this purpose.
The third and completely unused email address, Marjoriepotts, was one she had created at an acquaintance’s urging and then promptly — possibly even intentionally — forgotten the password for. It had felt wrong the moment she’d seen the name on the screen, as it did every time she looked at it on her scooter driver’s license. So, for both those reasons, that account was out of the question.
On a whim, she went to her computer, typed gmail.com into the browser, and clicked “Create account.”
Madametracyandsergeantshadwell, she typed into the “Username” text box before @gmail.com, and looked curiously at the way the names flowed together on the screen.
She thought about giving this email address to the agent selling the soon-to-be Shangri-La… and smiled. This did feel right. No sexy kittens or boots; no mysteries to reveal; no name that felt like someone she hadn’t been for a long time.
Just her, Shadwell, and the future they’d chosen.
Humming to herself, Madame Tracy clicked “Next.”
1 Shadwell was, actually, correct about this; both Heaven and Hell used email these days, and that included Satan.^