I grab my phone, fight the urge to justify hesitation, open our app, and text: “Is now anytime?” The words slide up my screen and I’m half in shock and half exuberant that they are there.
The reply is nearly instant and strikes hard: “No.”
What? There must be a misunderstanding. “Are you available for texting now, I mean?” That should be clearer.
This time the reply is more delayed. I’m almost worried for a second. “Oh, sure. LOL. I think I misread that.”
“No worries. I got your journal message.”
“I see. That’s why it’s anytime now.”
“Now is anytime!”
I catch my smile in the reflection of my phone.
“It is late, you know,” it says.
“Goodnight then.” I text. My heart is beating through my chest and I’m hoping it comes across as a joke. I really want to text.
“Wait…” The single word slides up the screen and I discover that I am breathing again. You never know how someone will interpret a text. “We should chat. It’s not that late.”
“Ok,” I send. Then suddenly I have no earthly idea what to say next. My mind is overflowing with a thousand blank thoughts.
“Ok,” comes the reply, which turns out to be entirely unhelpful in parsing through blank thoughts.
I scramble for a thread of conversation: “I’m glad to be texting.”
“Me too.”
“Yeah, me too.” I click send before I realize how stupid I sound. I begin typing frantically in an attempt to make the words inert by dilution factor alone. “I enjoyed the journal fora time, but I’m glad to be texting instead. The dead-drops were fun!”
“I’m glad. I started to get the feeling that our together-separately time needed to swing more toward ‘together’ and away from ‘separately’ if that works for you.”
“It does. I like texting… together.” I’m struck by the clarity of his writing and find myself coming up short with matching replies, like I don’t want to be outwitted and left behind.
I’m also struck by a ghost of a thought: Sabrina and I had a together-separately relationship; casually parallel lives, logistical closeness. This thought vaporizes as my chest whispers: This is becoming something quite opposite. Something unexpected.
And what could be more unexpected than having a mystery man? I feel my brain struggling to reconcile these two versions of my life.
“I’d like to get to know you.” I type, my adrenaline surging. “What important thing can I possibly learn?”
“Well...”
An idea strikes me: “Tell me about your couch.”
“My couch?”
“Yeah, your sofa. Your living room furniture. I can tell what kind of person you are by what kind of couch you have.”
“I’ve never been asked about my couch before.”
“Are you declining to answer?”
“No.” There is a noticeable delay before my phone pings again. “It’s brown. Leather. Comfy. Vintage.”
“You say ‘vintage,’ you mean ‘old?’”
“It was my granddad’s. I got it when he died. It’s better than any couch you could buy today and will last the rest of my lifetime.”