I’m his.
Even if I don’t fully understand what that means when it comes down to it. I’ve never seen the man, so how would I know how I truly feel about him?
Mr. Wrong Number:You could. You won’t.
Me:Oh? Why not?
Mr. Wrong Number:Because even you already know you’re mine.
“He has to stop saying things like that.” My phone clatters to the counter; I’m too flustered to concentrate on this conversation. “Shit!” I glance at the clock on the oven. I lost track of time. I only have thirty minutes to get ready and meet them for brunch.
Leaving my phone on the counter to distance myself, I get ready to go out into the world and not be a complete hermit like I really want to be today.
I run into my bathroom to take a shower. I’m quick since it isn’t a hair wash day. Even if the hot water feels so good I don’t want to get out, I force myself. Snagging the towel from the hook, I dry off and get dressed.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” I mutter, hopping my way into my jeans. “Come. On.” I collapse on the bed, at war with my own damn outfit, and lie there in defeat for a minute.
I hate jeans that are fresh out of the dryer. They shrink three sizes every single time and I have to sit here and wrestle with them as if I’m trying to slip into a spandex outfit.
Finally, I zip and button, then do a few squats to stretch the material out.
“Ah, better,” I sigh, tossing on a cream-colored sweater with bell sleeves and a pair of brown knee-high boots.
Taking my hair from the bun, I brush the tangles out, then toss it up into another bun. Then I just put on some mascara, not wanting to fuss with makeup today.
Spraying my wrists with perfume, I dab them on my neck to get rid of the extra liquid.
Grabbing my purse off the door handle, I rummage through to see if my license is in here. I tend to put it in places it doesn’t belong. I hate carrying a purse, and oftentimes, I’m putting my tube of lip gloss in my boot or stuffing my license in my bra. I’ve been trying to break the habit, since I’ve lost three licenses. I’m sure they’re somewhere around this apartment.
“Ah! Got ya.” I pluck said license from my purse as if it has a personal vendetta against me, then drop it back inside.
Snagging my coat from the rack, I pat the pockets until I hear the jingle of my keys, then grab my phone at the last second.
I have messages.
Mr. Wrong Number:I’m learning that I can be very intense with you and I’m not sure if I can stop it.
Mr. Wrong Number:I’m not in control of my emotions when it comes to wanting you.
Mr. Wrong Number:And don’t forget, when I say you’re mine, it also means that I am yours.
I gasp, rereading the messages over and over again. My heart pounds against my chest with excitement and I realize it’s the newness of it all, the hope of having the opportunity to be consumed by someone else again, to fall in love again, to have something that lasts.
I’m getting ahead of myself. I can’t plan out the future with him yet. That part of my mind has to wait. I can’t keep getting carried away with daydreaming. Expectations never get met because my mind drifts away with endless possibilities.
Me:I think I like the sound of that—being yours.
I’m unable to stop my smile as I slide on my coat and walk outside, locking the door behind me.
My phone vibrates in my palm.
Mr. Wrong Number:Good. Because it isn’t going to change. I have a feeling.
Me:A feeling? Oh no, I hear those are trouble. ;)
Mr. Wrong Number:They can be. Luckily, I know what to do with mine.
Mr. Wrong Number:Oh? And what do you plan on doing?
