Seven

For a while, I chalked my fascination with her up to curiosity of the unknown. She was new and different, of course I was drawn to her, that was simply the natural order of things. Everything familiar becomes mundane over time and the strange and other is some how more exciting. It was human nature really. Who was I to fight human nature?

So I texted her late late that night, nothing major considering how I fretted over it for hours before hand. At first I was worried about coming off as desperate and needy, after all, she had only just given me her number and her instructions were to “text her sometime”. It was vague really. How should I know what that meant? Should I have texted her sometime next week? But then again, it being so vague was the rationale I used that night to text her. Perhaps she wanted me to text her as soon as possible, or something like that? I couldn't possibly deny her that, or anything at all.

What's up?

I blew out a breath, the deed had been done and I would have to wait for her response. And wait. And wait. And wait. I found myself glancing at my phone every few minutes only to find that again, there was nothing from Melanie Frostwood.

What could she possibly be doing?

My brow wrinkled as I stared at my reflection in my phone, silently cursing her name. What could be so interesting on a Tuesday night that she would neglect to answer my text? My brow creased even further down the bridge of my nose. What if she thought I was boring? I ended up opening the thread that would contain our messages if she ever deigned to text back. I studied the two words and question mark analytically, picking it apart over and over again. Surely I could have come up with something a bit more interesting than “what's up?”. Had twelve years of private education really failed me so miserably that I couldn't find anything more charismatic to say than what's up?   

The End

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