B.A.P.E.: Schmooped Edition...
Pat sent the sweetest good-night e-mail last night. This morning, I replied, "That's one of the sweetest things anyone's ever said to me."
And then I didn't hear from him.
For nearly six hours.
And I was struck by how odd it felt *not* to hear from him.
Which, of course, is ridiculous. We don't even know each other yet. There should be no expectations. There have been no promises made, and so there should be no promises kept.
He called this afternoon and we chatted for a bit until a crisis seemed to be erupting between the kids. But before he hung up, he wanted to know if I wanted him to call on his way home, or was I getting sick of talking to him already?
Hardly. So he called me on his way home. I was watching "World News with Charles Gibson." It was 5:40. We hung up at 9:40. I don't think I've ever talked to anyone for four hours.
Some of it was serious, some of it was goofy, but never, at any time, did we want for material. He wanted to know if I've had any fantasies about the two of us. Well, of course I have. He wanted to know what they were. I declined. He pressed, good-naturedly. "No," I said. "It's too easy. It's like givin' you a map!"
We made a plan, a date, some might call it, for next week Thursday. Why not Monday, he wanted to know. Because that will be the day after the walk, I was hoping to take it off to be in a coma, but I have five meetings that day, and so I'll be in a coma after work. I would not, I told him, be on top of my game. "You don't have to be on top of your game," he said.
"Well, I need to be *in* the game," I said. And Tuesday and Wednesday just don't feel like date nights. Thursday feels like a date night. So Thursday it is.
He was trying to formulate a date plan on the phone and he was clearly obsessing over just the right thing. I suggested a restaurant. We'll see how the evening shapes up.
He asked if I was nervous. No, I said. Not right now. The day of, I'll probably be convulsing with nerves, but for now, I'm fine.