Sometimes my life is predictable and boring (which isn't always a bad thing), and other times it's just wacky. Last night my phone rang around 10:00. Most people who know me understand that I'm an "early to bed, early to rise" kind of woman and don't call me late. Fifteen or so minutes after the first call, another came through from the same number. No one left a message either time. After 10:30, the number popped up again, and that time I answered. It was funny because the person was finally going to leave a message and was flustered when I answered. He didn't identify himself; he just launched into conversation. I knew who it was because the city showed up on called ID and he's the only person I know who lives in that city. "He" is my first boyfriend. We started dating (or I guess "going steady" was what we called it then) when he was seventeen and I was fifteen, and it lasted about two years. We've been in touch on and off since then, but I hadn't talked to him in four or five years. He said he'd had a rum drink and had gotten up the courage to call me. I said, "Why did you need courage? You know I'm always happy to hear from you."
It turned out he'd had more than one rum drink, but he said he wasn't drunk, just giddy over talking to me after so long. He didn't want anything in particular. We chatted for an hour or so -- way past my bedtime -- when his phone battery started to die. I said it had been nice catching up a bit, and we could continue later. I clarified that by "later" I didn't mean in an hour when his phone had recharged, but another day. I added that if he ever called me so late again it had better be related to a death or dismemberment issue. He asked if I'd really ignore the call if I knew it was him. I said I might answer, but I'd be pissed. While I'm all about catching up with old friends, I also enjoy my sleep. And, after all, it's been a full forty years since we dated. Parts of my past I could do without being reminded of. He's a part I enjoy.
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