Sunday Afternoon

The cellphone screen. No messages. Pick up the home phone; no series of beeps telling me someone left a message. Fuck. What happened to the laissez-faire philosophy I swore I'd adopted. On some level, Junior High school never -- leaves us.

He'd pulled his shirt over his head and laid down on the sheets. My turn? I twisted the switch on the lamp and everything went black.

"I can't stand a naked light bulb, any more than I can a rude remark or a vulgar action."

- Blanche, A Streetcar Named Desire."

I flash on myself in bed beside him, flat on my back, knowing he was staring at my face in the moonlight. I tried to will my cheeks and jawline up.

All my worrying and then he says, "I love your smile. There's something behind it, I don't know."

Terror, maybe?

"I may have to stalk you - just to see you smile."

Sounds creepy, I know, but in his tone I knew he meant he just wanted to see it as much as he could. I worked that smile all night till I felt like the Joker.

What pierced me deepest was when I was on my side and he curled up behind me and put an arm over me. Socks still on, we rubbed our toes against each other's.

"Did you ever have your feet massaged?"

"No," he said, "but I do have something of a foot fetish." Okay.

"Well, I ain't suckin' no toes till I know you a lot better."

"No, I meant I ---

"Oh, you're the sucker."

"---I'm the sucker, yes."

"Well, one day I'll get a pedicure and you can go to town." He'd already told me he liked kissing me on the nose. Why not the toes? Toe-ses and noses. He took the palm of my hand and kissed it. Bringing it to my side, he continued to hold my hand. Fuck fucking. This was my idea of getting closer.

On top of him, I looked down on his young face and ran my fingers through his light brown hair. What color were his eyes? Brown, yes. He had some Latin blood in there somewhere; we touched on it at the hotel, but I was too busy wondering if he wanted to kiss me to listen.

He took my shirt off and pulled me into his chest, as if our bare chests touching could merge us. I can't remember much of what else we said, but we laughed and rolled around and I knew this was one for the books. I even kicked him out of bed a little sooner than he needed, in order for him to catch his train.

"You kickin' me out?"

"Yes, arise," I said, slapping his thigh. He sat up and I congratulated myself that he had not been the one to say, "I should be going."

Score.

He'd made enough allusions about things we'd do in the future that even my neurotic fears were quenched.

Which brings me to Saturday. I was doing fine in the morning; all my friends wanted all the details.

"And the funny things is, no matter what happens, it was a great night. I mean, he's twenty-one, so -- it can't be a relationship. Right? What's great about being older is that you don't have to do all that 'will he call me' shit. Right? I'm way too old for that."

Which brings me to Saturday night. No call.

Jesus Christ.

I take a shower and when I come out there's a text message. Thank God.

"I had a lot of fun last night and it wasnt just because of how the night ended."

Aw, sweet. But after a wash of warmth my eyes jumped to the word, "ended."

It was just a statement of fact but it totally built up some kind of "what did he mean by that?" domino chain that started to collapse.

If that isn't the total definition of neurotic, I don't know what is.

Then followed, "Why didn't he call to say it? What's with the text messaging?"

Finally, I snapped out of it and went about my day, thinking how wonderful it was that he even took the time to do it. Great. Really great.

After watching "Now Voyager" and "Holiday," I was totally transported into the altered state of Hollywood romance. I decided to text him back. I knew he was going to a catering job - either just arriving or on his way. Good time to do it.

"U can call late and tell me how hot water went."

"Hot water" was shorthand for when we broke down the coffee station the night we met and he'd burned his hand.

Good. Just enough. Good.

I watched the clock as the time dragged on.

6:00 - Well, I guess he's not going to call before the event.

10:00 - it's been on for three hours; maybe he'll get a break and call.

11:30 - things should definitely be winding down. He'll be out of there by 12:30. Just give it an hour.

12:45, 1:00, 1:15. Come on now, you asshole, answer me! I turned off my lights and just stared at the cellphone blinking green, not red. After ten minutes I turned the lamp on, picked up the goddamn phone and texted again:

"Pretzels?"

Another precious bit of code; I called him Pretzel Boy when we were setting up for the event and he was filling bowls with chocolate pretzels.

A half-hour went by. Why did I text a second message? Fuck.

I took two Excedrin PM's, knowing I would have stewed over this all night.

This morning: No message. I am now doggie-paddling to keep from drowning in obsession all day.

"Oh, it's so nice being old enough to not get caught up in mind games." Who waits a day to call, how long do you wait, when are we going to get together, is he seeing someone else?

Well, let the games begin.