Am I good? Well let’s see. I’m at the office, even though it’s 9pm on a national holiday.
Not by choice. I had dinner lined up with a buddy tonight, but he canceled this afternoon and I nearly wept. Well, not really. But it hit me harder than a rescheduled dinner should have. Probably because I’m not dating anyone at the moment and my friends are occupied with their families, which they have been busy creating while I have, despite my best efforts to find the human connection I crave, instead billed millions of dollars drafting ironclad prenups.
I need to get a life, Molls. I hear there’s more to human existence than conference calls about custody hearings and eating extremely expensive takeout sushi at your desk.
This is not the Seth Rubenstein I know. He sounds despondent. Worryingly so. I don’t even think about it. I just write him back.
From: mollymarks@netmail.co
To: sethrubes@mail.me
Date: Mon, Jan 1, 2019 at 6:55pm
Re: Re: Re: Subject: Congrats!
Poor lonely old man. You know, you can call me if you need a shoulder to cry on. It’s only 7pm here, and I love miserable people.
555-341-4532
xo
My phone rings almost immediately. I hesitate for a second. Are we really going to talk on the phone? Like in high school, when we would have those long, emo chats that would go on for hours?
Probably not. I’ll just say hi and make sure he’s okay.
I pick up on the second ring.
“Wow,” I say. “That was fast. Good to know you still have no cool.”
“Molly Marks, have I ever once pretended to be cool?” There’s a smile in his voice. A wry one I can picture. Good. He must not be as miserable as I thought.
“You’re right,” I say. “You’ve always been very honest about being a dork.”
“Thank you.”
There’s an awkward pause. I’m not sure what to say. So I go with, “I’m sorry you’re stuck at work.”
“Oh, it’s okay. I’d rather be here than at home. What are you doing?”
“Not much. Contemplating making pasta.”
“I thought people in LA didn’t eat pasta.”
“Hungover people do.”
He laughs. “Big night last night?”
“Huge.”
“Was it at least fun?”
“Yeah, but all that socializing makes me jittery the next day. Plus, my anxiety is always worse around New Year’s. I hate this time of year.”
“I hate it too,” he says. “All the pressure to start fresh and be better.”
I am floored that Seth is not a New Year’s person. You would think he’d be champing at the bit to practice mindfulness and give up sugar and sign up for marathons.
“I’m surprised you’re not into it,” I say. “But yes. Achievement fetishizing. Gag me.”
“I like setting goals in other contexts. But there’s something about doing it just because it’s January that makes me grumpy.”
The idea of him as anything other than sunshine and light is so novel it’s adorable.
“I bet you’re cute, all grumpy,” I say.
Flirtatiously?
Should I be flirting? Is that wise?
I’m not sure what I’m doing. I’m not sure what this is.
“Not especially cute, I’m afraid,” he says. “There’s soy sauce on my shirt.”
“There’s probably a woman out there who likes that.”
“Good, can you give me her number?” he says.
Uh, yeah. We are definitely flirting. I need to regroup.
