Dry Spell

Craig and I flirt until it is time to go to sleep (again) and then again when our respective alarms go off in our respective states.  Long distance cyber dating at its weird, detached best.

And then the weirdest thing happens.

For the next 3, almost 4 days, I hear nothing from him. 

Nada. Not one single word.  The last text was dripping with desire and then followed by a seemingly endless stretch of desert.  Dry and lifeless.

And you know, me, the nerveen. I assume the worst.

He's lost interest.

He's died in a horrific accident and his identity still not determined.

He has been swept off his feet by a darling 20 year old with perkier boobs and no pesky work and family demands.

I am simply not the priority I thought I might be.

To make matters worse, work is a totally hellacious shit storm of emergencies, last minute deadlines, SNAFUs and political no-win situations. By Thursday, I ready for a little at-home spa time. I pour a shaker of martinis. I head to the bathroom with the hair dye in my free hand.

I draw a hot bubble bath. I dye my hair. I sink into the tub with some candles lit and nothing but the sound of my own breathing.

Until my phone starts dinging. 

I dry my hands on the towel on the floor and reach for the phone. I still have 20 minutes left on the hair dye and my serenity is destroyed.

By what?  By texts from my former friend, turned stalker, turned traitor, turned lunatic.  Asking why we're not friends. What did she do?  How can she learn from her mistake if she does not know what it was?

She knows exactly what it was. I've told her so. In plain, straight forward blisteringly truthful English. She would just like the blame to lie elsewhere. So she asks. You can practically hear the screaming.

And while I am trying to figure out what exactly it is I need to say to her, if anything, to dial down the crazy, I get a text from Craig.

He wants to get together Saturday night. Am I free?