That is more than just surviving. That is a thrill. That is a window into a world where I can be reckless and free.
Best of all, it means nothing.
How could it mean anything if I don't even know who he is?
I don't even know his name.
Another thrill skips fast in my pulse points.
A year ago, before life decided I was a fun target to kick down, I would have ignored the very first text from WN—Wrong Number.
But post-personal apocalypse, with bills to pay, you take comfort and smile at the little things.
Having to sell the last piece of jewelry the government didn't get their hands on to keep food on the table and a roof over your head makes you appreciate the little luxuries in life. Like a sassy wrong number.
Having no one to rely on, no one to talk to, no one on your side. Being alone in a world that wants to swallow you whole helps, too.
And he wasn't racy then.
It was all so innocent.
WN
I just wanted to let you know I'm running a bit late for our date, but I'm on my way.
Me
Do you mind fluffy slippers?
WN
Is that your usual attire to dates?
Me
I mean, I occasionally wear clothes, too.
I'm sorry, I'm sure you know this by now, but you got the wrong number.
WN
Thank you for the stress relief. I had fun.
Me
Good luck on your date. Hope your girlfriend isn't mad that you're late.
WN
Not girlfriend. A date from MeetR. I will let you know how it goes.
Me
Ok, good luck. And try not to get murdered or mugged or anything like that.
An hour later, he texted to let me know he hadn't been murdered as she didn't show.
And that was what started it all. But it hadn't ended yet.
