Frankly, I was shocked when I got the text telling me to
join her downtown where she had to cover the grand opening of a Cuban eatery.
We had been estranged for days, brief glimpses of passing
ships in the office, but no more talk of docking.
I texted back, “Really? You want me there?”
I got no response. I headed hope, thinking was a mistake, a
text she hadn’t meant to send or wanted to take back once she had.
Half way home, I received the next text: “Where the fuck are
you?”
I pulled over and texted back, “On my way home,” then waited
again pointlessly for a replace that never arrived, finally continuing on up
the ill, settling into my driveway when the reply came: “Need you here.”
“Are you sure?” I texted back, car engine still running.
I was weary and did not know if it was worth the trip back
after all the chilliness between us over the previous few days.
I waited; no reply. It was as if I was texting into a black
hole.
I turned of the car and went into the house, only to have
the phone vibrate again the moment I stepped through the door: “Come here,” the
message said, followed by an address.
I thought about it and wondered if this might be a chance to
mend the fences I had helped tear down, a sharing maybe like that after the boat
ride, where I could watch her in action and maybe celebrate with a meal at its
conclusion.
I glanced at the time. I knew I would have to leave immediately
if I was to arrive on time for the ribbon cutting. I decided to go, rather than
stay, gambling on a reunion and a possible thawing in our relations.
“Hurry,” the text said when I was half way back.
“I’m coming,” I texted when I parked the car, hurrying as
fast as I could considering the thick foot traffic of rush hour.
I found her inside surveying the interior and the menus,
looking up stunned when I stepped through the door, her eye brows rising above
her sunglasses.
“What are you doing here?”
“You texted me and told me to come.”
“I wasn’t texting you,” she said coolly. “I was texting my
brother.”
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