I complain about those I want who disappear, but those I don’t want sometimes have novel ways of returning.
Pet name man was gone — for good, I thought — for four or five days and sent me a text message asking me to check my e-mail. (He covers all bases, I don’t know, in case the internet up and dies). I was out of the office all day and experienced stabs of annoyance that I couldn’t deal with this resurgence in contact for many hours.
I got home and checked my e-mail that night. I won’t paste his message here because it’s 16 paragraphs excluding salutations and PSs. Even without meeting in person, a few days without contact has seen him elevate the perception of me from a scary prospect into a mysterious goddess perched on a rotating golden dais with butterflies and hummingbirds flittering around my perfect visage and the pores of my silken skin dripping pure honey. Or some shit like that. We are apparently meant to be.
I felt like I’d been dragged on the set of Seinfeld in the episode where the man who made Elaine a bouquet of flowers from TV guides started crafting fashion mannequins in her likeness: “TR-6?: I prefer to think of her as … Elaine.”
I asked him to never contact me again.