He texted me every day for two weeks. Parried and played with words, flirted and flitted about my little phone screen.
I told him I could be free either Friday or Saturday nights, but it all depended on Pey and my parents and which night they wanted to spend together. He said he preferred Saturday and then it all worked out. Saturday it was.
No, he didn’t need help picking something to do because he was brand new to town. He’d be happy to figure something out. Yes, he’d follow me to the table to check out my sexy rear end because he prefers meaty women like me. Of course he’s certain I look cute every day. Wow, he thinks I’m really pretty! Morning darlin, he said practically every morning. What are you wearing today? And we’d joke at how filthy such an innocent question sounded.
And then on the bright, cold morning of our date I read the following text:
Early afternoon lunch
No punctuation. No context. No more anything.
I responded with question marks and confusion and lots of space so he could play with the rope. By late afternoon I couldn’t help but send one last text to at least acknowledge the event that was occurring:
I get the feeling we’re not having our date tonight since I haven’t heard from you since that 8 am text about an early afternoon lunch…
All the words, all the darlin’s, all the flirty, flitty, parrying, and playing amounted to one big fat fucking black hole of my energy and hope. And a last minute appeal to a girlfriend so that my rare Saturday night would not go to waste.
Thanks a lot, Mr. Forgettable. May you get a nasty rash and wake up 30 minutes too early for the rest of your selfish and impolite life. Now excuse me while I go deal with my quiet, impotent rage over the betrayal of a simple social contract: do what you say you will and if you cannot then you say so.
Have a nibble on that for your bitch time slot early afternoon lunch, why don’t you?