“Holy hell.” I sat back in the chair and stared at the phone; so much for productivity.
Miss Misdial: I’m at a coffee shop, and Mr. Earbuds next to me keeps singing along to that old Marvin Gaye song “Sexual Healing.” It’s on repeat, apparently, because we’re on the fifth go-round, and I’m not sure how to proceed.
I wanted to respond, So heal him already, so badly.
Miss Misdial: I feel like you’d say something ridiculous right now, like “dude, why haven’t you healed him yet,” but that’s a negatory; he’s giving off strong I-will-scream-at-you vibes. I think I shall get out my pepper spray and fiddle with it while I work, just so he knows I’ve got it.
Holy shit, if Olivia played with her pepper spray, she’d blind herself in minutes.
Miss Misdial: On second thought, we both know I cannot be trusted with the care and handling of pepper spray. I shall move along to another coffee shop, where men who mutter “get up—let’s make love tonight” are not afoot. I bid you adieu, Mr. Wrong Number. Oh, and you too, Mother of Wrong Number, should you be canoodling with his phone while he remains comatose. Ciao.
I got up and walked over to the windows, my favorite part of the apartment, and stared down at the city. I needed to get my head right. If I couldn’t get my brain to dump Misdial in a heartbeat, perhaps I could get Harper to help my brain.
I scrolled to her contact information and sent her a text.
Me: Remember that time we said it might be fun to go to dinner?
I didn’t expect her to respond quickly, but my phone buzzed almost immediately.
Harper: You’re seriously asking me out six months later? I’m pretty sure that was New Year’s Eve, Colin.
Me: Maybe it took me this long to get the nerve to ask.
Harper: Or maybe it took you this long to remember my name.
It was almost funny how spot-on she was. I’d meant to text her the night I’d accidentally texted Misdial—fuck, Olivia—and I actually hadn’t been able to remember if Harper was her first or last name. We’d met at Billy’s Bar on New Year’s Eve, and she was a knockout but registered as really high maintenance, which was why it’d taken so long for me to consider reaching out.
Desperate times and all that. I texted: Let me take you to M’s tonight, HARPER O’RILEY （see?）， and I guarantee you’ll have a good time.
The phone buzzed.
Miss Misdial: Update. Sexual Healing followed me for three blocks, and when I whipped around and confronted him with my pepper spray, he told me I wasn’t that pretty and I should blow myself with my pepper spray.
Holy hell.
Miss Misdial: So now I’m obsessed with his meaning; what could he have possibly meant by that? A. He thinks I have a penis and should fellate myself while somehow utilizing the pepper spray in the self-inflicted oral sex act. B. He forgot the word “up” and wants me to explode. C. He got the word “blow” confused with “bang” and is suggesting I insert a canister of pepper spray into my vagina.
I started laughing; I couldn’t help it. Seriously, how could I not? She was beyond ridiculous. It took everything in my power not to add D. He was using the word “blow” in place of the word “spray,” and simply wanted you to blind yourself.
But just as I was considering it, Harper responded.
Harper: I’ll meet you at M’s. My uncle is the bartender, so I’ll call and get us a table. Seven o’clock work?
Wow. Maybe not so high maintenance at all.
Me: Seven is perfect. See you then.
Olivia
In spite of my shaking hands, I finished an article about the upcoming opening of a new bistro in the Capitol District and I started drafting another 402 column. I hated how shaken up that creep had made me. Hated it. I considered myself a relatively strong person, but as soon as I’d noticed him following me, I’d been terrified.
Thank God for pepper spray.
Men would never understand the utter bullshit unfairness of the fact that they’re just built stronger. Small men, tall men, lazy men, soft men; the reality was that most of them—if they wanted to—could overpower me. They’d never know what it was like to not be able to walk alone without being on watch, and knowing that always pissed me off.
Pricks, the lot of them.
I’d been counting on Mr. Wrong Number to read my story, jump in, and make me feel better, but he was still AWOL. Which was starting to make me more stressed than I cared to admit. Because the issue was twofold; first, why was he AWOL—had I done something? And second, why did the thought of him ghosting totally devastate me? I didn’t even know him, for the love of God, so how could his silence cause me such indigestion?