The email came as I was having a decompressing cocktail with my favorite bartender and dear friend, K. I dropped the phone on the bar, rose from my stool and took a step beck before reading it again. Did I just read that? Surely I must have stammered seven “wow’s” before real words began to form.
“You OK” the recently non-smoking K asked.
“If you read what I just read, you would relapse and kick a puppy if he stood between you and a pack of Marlboro Lights.”
I exhaled deeply and marveled at the ability of a woman I have never met to erase all logical thoughts from my mind and make a four hour drive seem completely reasonable at the moment. As K poured beer and mixed sundry cocktails for others, I tried to steady my addled brain to explain. Short sentences, I reminded myself.
It’s nothing
It’s virtual
We’ve never met
She is an intimidatingly good writer
We don’t know each other
It’s a surreal online flirtation
A manufactured narrative
Of poetry and prose
In octagonal harmony
It started so innocently
And morphed into this
Tales of a perfect Sunday
Of coffee, and newspapers, and amazing sex
Intelligence as aphrodisiac
I’m not making sense
This makes no sense
And yet I want her
Badly
But we’ve never met
But I want that Sunday
I want every Sunday
I want that perfect first date
Long dormant things have stirred
And I have no idea what’s next
Posted by restaurant refugee 
