She texts back:
On the balcony
Right, the balcony off the master bedroom.
I text: We have to be careful.
But I don’t send it. My first texts were lame. This whole new exciting way to communicate secretly with your mistress, and I start by asking about her cellular reception? And now I say we have to be careful? Talk about un-sexy.
I should have thought this out more. But I didn’t. I erase and type this, instead: We have to be careful. I don’t want to screw anything up for you.
Better, because it shows caring. But still comfortably occupying wet-blanket territory. Up your game, Simon.
I’ve never done anything like this before.
No. It’s true, I haven’t done anything like this before, but no.
Pop quiz: What would someone not feeling insecure say to her right now?
（a） Do you really like me? Are you sure? Cuz I like you tons!
（b） Are you tired? Because you’ve been running through my mind all night.
（c） I’ve never met anyone like you.
（d） I think I love you.
（e） None of the above.
I’m going with （e）。 I’m not going to use the L word. How about this: I can’t stop thinking about you.
That’s better. Yeah. I send it before I can talk myself out of it. Take another sip of my Starbucks. Her text box starts bubbling. She’s typing a response: C u later Wow. Phew. That went well.
I close out the phone, power it off, and remove the SIM card.
? ? ?
Wicker Park. Back when I was in college, this was the cutting edge of hip, the place to live, the place to hang. It still is to a lot of people, but it’s become a bit too yuppie now for the younger crowd, and some of the cool dives and concert rooms and coffee bars have been replaced with AT&T and Lululemon stores and Fifth/Third Bank branches.
I work late at the law school. At about seven-fifteen, I start out from the school on a ten-mile round-tripper to Wicker Park and back. At the halfway point, I stop outside a bar called Viva Mediterránea, on Damen north of North Avenue in the city. Never been here. The back patio, adjacent to the alley, is full of revelers tonight, people in work clothes enjoying an extended happy hour, college kids and grad students just getting started. These guys were robbed of fun summers the last two years thanks to COVID-19, and they’re enjoying being back.
I stand in the alley, sweaty and the good kind of tired, and look around. To my right, Viva’s back patio. To my left, the rear side of a condominium building on the next street over, a few of the condo owners out on their back patios grilling meat and enjoying a cocktail of their own.
I’m near people having fun without being elbowed and jostled. Not especially well lit, either.
Yes, this is going to be my spot. The alley behind Viva Mediterránea.
Our plan is to text twice a day, ten in the morning and eight at night, times that fit with our schedules. We will leave our phones off the rest of the time. We have to be careful. Anyone could understand why. You can’t just leave your burner phone lying around to beep or ring when the wrong person—say, your spouse—happens to be near it.
It means I will have to adjust my running schedule, which is disappointing, because I love my morning runs, but there’s something to be said for running in the evening, too, and this route from the law school to Viva wasn’t bad at all.
I pull out my green phone, as it’s 8:00 p.m., and send this: Testing, testing . . . oh never mind. Good evening my fair lady.
She replies promptly:
Hello stranger danger
Emphasis on the danger. I try not to think about it. But it’s always going to be there. She replies again quickly: Just a fair lady?
Fair as in blond, but she’s playing with me.
You are a little more than fair, I’d say. You are sexy and funny and surprising and you make my heart race a mile a minute. How’s that.
She responds:
That’s more like it.
A chant goes up on the patio, the patrons at Viva. There’s a TV out there, and Contreras just hit a homer for the Cubs. It’s good to be young. I return my attention to the phone: I want to do things to you.
Her reply:
To me or with me?
That’s a softball:
To you.
Bubbles, as she contemplates a response. Then: Oh, my. For someone with such a religious name to have such a naughty side . . .
Nice. I like that. For the record, my mother didn’t name me Simon Peter as a nod to a biblical character. She always wanted Simon for my first name, and Peter was her father’s name. But the religious ed teachers at Saint Augustine loved to use my full name.