A year ago. 1/7.

Sunday.

I’ve been waiting by the phone for two days. Yesterday was detox day, spent in bed with ginger ale and crackers, alternately reliving and doubting Friday night’s grossly intoxicated PG-13 misadventure against a storefront on Hargett St.

I’ve never had a guy not call. I thought that only happens (or doesn’t happen) in flimsy movies written by and for cartoons. But I’m not thinking about it. I am consumed by not thinking about it.

I run out and buy a bunch of books I’ve been meaning to read, and then don’t read them. I don’t have the attention span. I’m too busy not thinking about Friday night and my gallingly silent cell phone.

…which does ring, finally, late, and on the other end he sounds threadbare and abashed. I’m thrown. Why is he sorry? We’re both adults, and that was very hot. I try every persuasive tactic I know: logos, pathos, humor, reassurance, deflection, self-deprecation, charm, emotional brute force. He’s not having it. He’s not interested, not in that way. What can I do? Consent is a 1 or a 0.

So I relent as gracefully as I can and hang up, knuckling away embarrassed tears. I stare at the quiet phone’s blank face.

Fuck you. Fuck this.

Somewhere around midnight, I crawl back into bed with my laptop and, after a moment’s guilty hesitation, point my browser to OkCupid.

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