"It's nothing. Just a...wrong number situation."
"A wrong number situation she says, while her pupils are dilated, and she's made enough tamales to feed a small hospital."
I stress-cook. It's healthier than my other coping mechanisms, like performing illegal surgery or sexting strangers who admit to murder.Allegedly.
My phone buzzes. My autonomic nervous system goes into overdrive—heart rate 120, palms sweating, dopamine flooding my synapses like a pharmaceutical rave. I automatically check my pulse with two fingers on my wrist—nurse habit, even when aroused. Especially when aroused.
Wrong Number:What are you doing, Angel?
Izzy sees my face. "That's him! The wrong number that has you looking like you just discovered orgasms exist."
"Shut up." But I'm already typing back, my frontal lobe waving a white flag of surrender.
Making tamales. Drinking wine. Questioning my life choices. The usual Friday night trifecta of cultural obligation and poor judgment.
Wrong Number:What kind of wine?
Malbec. Pretentious enough to make me feel sophisticated while I text a stranger who could be assembling a skin suit in his basement.
Wrong Number:I don't have a basement.
That's exactly what someone with a basement full of skin suits would say.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear. My vagina is taking notes for her thesis chapter on "Digital Foreplay and the Modern Woman's Descent into Chaos."
Wrong Number:What are you wearing?
I laugh loud enough that Izzy nearly falls off the counter. "Did he just—?"
"He did."
"Are you going to—?"
"I absolutely am."
Seriously? That's your move? What are you wearing? What's next, asking for my astrological sign? My blood type? My mother's maiden name for password recovery?
Wrong Number:Answer the question, Angel.
The command hits somewhere between my chest and lower regions, which have formed an unholy alliance against my better judgment.
Scrubs. Always scrubs. It's my personality now. Scrubs and existential dread.
Wrong Number:You're lying.
He's right. I'm wearing an oversized UNM Hospital shirt that's seen better decades and shorts that could generously be called "optimistic" in their coverage. But he doesn't need those details. Yet.
Tank top and shorts. Covered in masa. Very sexy. I'm basically a tamale-making goddess of poor decisions.
Wrong Number:Take off the tank top.
My brain shorts out. Emergency protocols activate. Breathing manually initiated.
“What did he say?" Izzy's reading over my shoulder now, boundaries extinct.
"He said—"
"I can read, santa. Holy shit. Are you going to?"
