Year of the Chick (book 1 in the "Year of the Chick" series)

Chapter Eleven

The next morning at work the conversation with James was fresh in my mind, but not in a very good way. The more I played it back the more negative it became. I couldn’t deny the “Jude Law” richness of his voice, or the chuckle that could melt a million hearts, but did I even say more than ten intelligible words? I was so unprepared for the voice on the other end, since I’d been free of English accents for two whole years. And it’s not like THAT ended well. But then he spoke, and of course, I choked. Almost everything I’d said was a variation of “great,” “yes,” or “that sounds cool!” A talking toy doll would’ve had more things to say.

Since I clearly didn’t have a lot of high-points to share, I minimized the details in my morning call with Laura. I could sense she was stressed out anyway, with her brother’s birthday party and the chance to be with Mark only three days away.

Once I finished the call with Laura I resumed my latest blog post. It was the best distraction besides actual work, and the last time I’d checked “actual work” contained zero satisfaction.

----------------------------------

Every night it’s the same. I’m in the car, I roll to a stop at a traffic light, and I cross my fingers…hoping to find a man.

I’ve been playing this game forever, with the following fantasy stuck in my head:

-I turn to the car on my left (or right), and at that very moment, I lock horny eyes with the man of my dreams. As my innards come to a boil, “Sexual Healing” begins to play on the radio.

But here’s how it goes in actual life:

-I lock horny eyes with a no-nonsense “soccer mom”…or a greasy teenage dude…or a thin-moustached pedophile. I abruptly turn away, stupid as I feel for getting pre-maturely horny.

And now, here’s my question to the lovely men:

-WHERE ARE YOU? Do you take the bus? Do you not leave the house?Just quit your hiding please, ‘cause really, I’m not crazy! (But I WILL find you, one way or another…)

----------------------------------

In reality, of course I wouldn’t find Mr. Right in a nearby vehicle. Not when he was across the Atlantic Ocean. As my cursor hit “Publish” I felt a wave of satisfaction. At the beginning the blogging had only been a reason to write. But three months later with the comments building up, I no longer felt like a crazy person writing to myself. I felt like people were actually listening.

***

I was glad to be wrong about James finding me boring, changing his phone number, and moving to Greenland via the witness protection program.

I mean I must’ve been at least okay at this phone call thing, since we were currently fifteen minutes into our latest conversation. I’d even had some interesting things to say, though his accent continued to be a loin-rumbling distraction.

I needed to ask him if he’d ever recorded audio books. They could be about anything at all and I would listen; football, colonoscopies, my sister…

“Roms, you are still listening to me, aren’t you?”

“It’s Romes!”

“Did you ever consider I might enjoy calling you ‘Roms?’“

“No.”

“Well I do,” he said laughing.

Did you ever consider this is MY world, and the only people who dare call me “Roms” instead of “Romes” are those at a distance? In which category…you currently fall…damn.