I met Patrick in Atlanta, then continued the drive to Michigan with all the rest of the holiday travelers and state troopers. As we drove through Ohio, I thought of Dalehole, and wished I knew where he lived so I could pull up in his driveway and suprise/scare the crap out of him (it's a weird stalking issue or odd sense of humor I have, but it's under control. Mostly). Instead, he called me!
I usually don't answer when he calls, but occasionally I will, if only to practice proper tones of aloof and casual disdain. "Who is this again? Dale? Oh, yeah, yeah..." Really, why would I want anyone, especially him, to know how hard I fell, and how much it hurt when we stopped talking? Reject me? I think not.
He told me he'd be in Alabama for two weeks - did I want to hang out? Grab some dinner? Go to the beach? Sure. Whatever. Maybe if I wasn't too busy.
We've been together since Friday afternoon.
"A wise girl kisses but doesn't love, listens but doesn't believe, and leaves before she is left."
- Marilyn Monroe