George
So you know how we both admitted to being Matchheads earlier? I think I failed to mention that I own digital copies of all the past seasons.
And that I have an app that would let us stream them simultaneously. With a chat at the side of the screen.
If that’s something you’d be into.
I’m sittingin George’s living room, flipping channels and digging into the Christmas cookies I baked this afternoon because it seemed like the festive thing to do. If I were home, I’d be doing pretty much the same thing (though I probably would have delivered cookies to various friends and neighbors). For some reason, though, tonight being alone feels lonely in a way it usually doesn’t. Whatever it is, I’m both surprised and very glad to hear from George.
Unless you have plans because it’s Christmas Eve and you probably don’t want to spend it rewatching bad reality TV with me.
No! Yes, I do!
I mean I don’t! Have plans. And I do. Want to watch.
With you!
Several hours later,the credits roll on our third episode. Or maybe our fourth? I’ve lost track. It’s getting late. Actually past midnight, I see when I check. Christmas. Which seems like the wrong time to be binging mental junk food with a guy you don’t really know.
Except if I’m honest, it’s been kind of perfect and I don’t want to stop.
Owen
Oof. I forgot how painful that elimination was.
George
I still can’t believe she sent Michael home after he wrote her a freaking song!
And clearly Andrew thought so too. Did you see his face when she sent Mikey home?
Oh God yes. He looked like someone kicked his puppy. Or his secret boyfriend.
LOL definitely his secret boyfriend. Helping him with his tie that time? The lingering eye contact? Come on.
I have a theory that they plant one Friend of Dorothy each season, just to see how it will play out.
Wow. I never really thought about it, but I think you might be onto something. Who do you think it was in season five?
Tim!
Tim!
Our texts pop up nearly simultaneously and I laugh out loud. The sound bounces around the empty apartment, startling me back to reality. It’s late, quiet. Even the city that never sleeps is subdued, though I hear a distant group of cheerful people singing a holiday tune; I’m guessing on their way back from a bar.
I don’t particularly want to put an end to this, but it’s probably time.
Hey, should we call it a night? I don’t want to keep you.
Lies.
Oh. I mean, sure. If you want to.
I mean…
Want is a strong word.
I blink at that after I send it. The tips of my ears burn. For no good reason. It’s a word. A word he said first. Jesus, what is wrong with me?
