Since it was a wrong number, I didn't know whether he was the next male top model or Quasimodo. I didn't even know his name or anything. But because I didn't know, and most likely would never know, it was safe. I could fantasize.
Not about him.
About me.
I could be anything. Funny. Flirty. Silly.
I could be daring if I wanted.
I could be anyone.
I could be the me that never stood a chance after the rug was pulled out from beneath my feet.
And WN became a kind of comfort zone.
We would never meet.
We would never know each other's real names or see each other's faces.
Through text, we could be anything we wanted.
I loved that freedom.
And since we are still texting, I still do. Now more than ever.
I shake my head at myself. "Fuck, you're so pathetic, Lola."
From that first day, it became natural to just text once in a while.
He would let me know when he had dates, I would tell him to wear a silly piece of clothing or give him outrageous advice.
I guess somewhere in the past few months, it changed. Became more frequent, more daring. We would tell each other things—tiny things, big things—it didn't matter because it was just two people who would never meet.
Even when it became dares and flirting of the red flagkind, I went with it. The texts are a great distraction from everything else going on.
He's so easy to talk to. And I have enjoyed the slow build of flirts to the sexy dares...
I don't want to meet, even though he once suggested it.
I check the time.
I have to go back to work soon, but I read his text again.
WN
Are you wearing underwear?
What if I just reply to this one message?
He is probably working and won't reply until later, so it should be okay.
Me
I'm hardly even wearing toothpaste or coffee.
Within seconds, my phone pings.
WN
