I regretted giving him my real name immediately and huffed. “It comes from Rudest. Since, if you haven’t noticed yet, you’re both rude and inconsiderate.”
There you go, Yvaine. Your nickname was that pathetic, he’s laughing at you now.I facepalmed.
“Glad I can make you laugh,Rudolph.” I wasn’t glad at all. “At least one of us is having fun.”
Then I hung up.
As I floated in the land between sleep and wakefulness, I became aware of raspy breathing. Cracking a crusty lid, I found myself nose-to-snout with Zeus, parked right next to my face like a furry bowling ball.
“Hey, Z.” I yawned, so tired that I didn’t even try to cover my mouth, and stretched like the wolf I was, arching my back. “Did you sleep better than me, or…?”
He huffed and hid half his body under the pillow.Rude!Especially since he hadn’t had to deal withthat man.
The incident—because disaster felt too inflating, and moment gave it too much grace—involving the stranger I’d dubbed Rudolph was firmly filed under Things We Don’t Talk About Before Coffee. Or After.
There would not be a plurality of the incident. It would always be just an embarrassing memory, reminding me of how terrible my sense of humor was.
Who would rename someone Rudolph for being rude?
Good reminder not to lend out my phone. And a clear note to squeeze in more time for my NMWB, considering my body’s response. Because of a voice!
Last night, after ending the call, I had proceeded to block the number of the unclassified specimen—or rather, speci-voice. The man had learned my name. He could be dangerous, as far as I was concerned. He could be a stalker. A charming one, with a voice that sounded like whiskey mixed with the smoke of a fireplace, but still. A stranger. No reason for us to speak ever again.
My phone pinged. A little anticipation swirled inside me. Zeus pricked up his ears, as if he was connected with my internal turmoil.
Morning, bunny.
Whatcha doing now besides thinking of me? Fun talking to you last night ;)
He’d messaged me from a new number. Probably figured out I’d blocked his last one.
“Delusionalandcocky. A terminal combo,” I muttered, side-eyeing Z as his tail thudded once, like he agreed.
With an unnecessarily long sigh, because he was right, I typed back with the speed of someone torn between annoyance and a tiny, sickening flutter of giddiness.
Morning to you. None of your business, Rudolph.
I paused. Then, because apparently I hated peace, added with a smile rising on my lips:
Go pester other girls.
His reply was almost immediate.
I don’t ‘pester.’ I usually get pestered.
If ‘being pestered’ means sprinkling your bad pickup lines like a bee flitting flower to flower, sure. You’re a real pollinator.
Wow. Poetic. My former third grade teacher would cry. And yeah, I like flowers. All kinds. Most smell great. Some less. Bet yours is amazing
My brain buffered, then reeled.
“Did he just?—?”
Back to the perverted jokes so early in the morning?
It wasn’t a joke. It’s called honesty. I like flowers, and I was giving you a compliment, damn Yvaine the Ive. Accept one for once in your cactus life.
A second message pinged in before I could even process the previous one.
