Five.
Five days since she sent me her snarky, outraged text.
Fine then, if that’s how you feel!
I remember staring down at it, my hand tightening on the phone, and my heart beating heavily as I mentally composed dozens of unsent messages. I imagined grabbing my curvy goddess and bending her over for speaking so sassily to me, trailing my fingers up her inner thigh and then slipping inside of her, pushing deep, hard, until she started to shiver and pulse and –
And here I am, at it again.
It’s the same every morning. I count how many days it’s been since I last spoke with my mystery girl, and then I start fantasizing about her, even though there’s no way I can be fantasizing about her specifically.
I rise as my curtains are still opening, the automatic mechanism linked to my alarm clock. Staring out the window, I look down on the city, the sun glistening, another gorgeous morning that should fill me with hope, optimism, and enthusiasm.
All I see is her, forming in the refractions of the sunlight, glinting from the skyscrapers.
But I can’t see her. She doesn’t exist. She’s a stranger from the abyss, nobody to me.
Walking into the shower, I reflect on that. I was sure she was a gold digger or somebody from a rival company, but she would’ve reached out by now if that was the case. That’s the main reason I haven’t messaged her back.
The water blasting over my naked body – turned up hot to sear my skin – I think about the countless times I’ve nearly messaged her, coming close each time, only to stop at the final moment. If she is what I think she might be, a clever tactic would be waiting for me to reach out first, to convince me she doesn’t care.
But that would mean she knew how I felt, which is impossible.
Because the way I feel should be impossible.
As I get dressed for work, I return to an idea I’ve been toying with. This feeling clearly makes no sense. I shouldn’t be held captive by thoughts of a woman who exists only in my mind. I shouldn’t find it difficult to focus on anything else.
The solution is easy.
Hire a company or a person to find out who the phone number belongs to, and confirm they’re nothing like in my imagination. Maybe I’ll even be able to see if they’re working for a rival company or if they’re a socialite with a history of stunts like this.
Then I won’t have to think about her anymore.
That’s the problem.
Driving into work – still obsessed with her, it never stops – I reflect on the dark aspect of this. This woman exists in my mind, which means learning the truth is like killing her. This woman who’s only real inside my thoughts and fantasies will disappear the moment I learn her identity.
The chances of her looking like the woman of my fantasies are pretty much zero. The chances of me still feeling this compulsive need are just as bad.
In my office, I try to focus. I try to pretend none of this is happening. It’s just a regular day, with meetings and work and nothing else.
I’m about to open my emails when my mother calls. I tap answer, grateful for any distraction.
“Morning, Felix,” she says.
“Morning,” I reply, trying my best to sound friendly.
I fail.
“Have I just woken you? You sound like you’re going to try and swing on me through the phone.”
I grin at the reference. As well as working two jobs when I was a kid, Mom had a passion for amateur boxing, competing several times. It feels like a different lifetime now.
“Nah, I’m good,” I tell her. “I’m in the office. How are you?”
We talk about her medications and her recovery for a while, and then she pauses awkwardly. I’m squeezing the desk, I realize, the way I always do when the topic of her illness comes up in conversation.
I’m all too aware of how it could end.
“What is it?” I ask.
She clears her throat. “It’s…well, I don’t want to make you even grumpier.”
I laugh dryly. “I’m not grumpy.”
Mom returns my laughter, though with less anger tinging hers. I remind myself that I need to make more of an effort not to let my low mood infect these moments with my mother, especially because they might be some of her last.
“I’ve got an idea,” she says. “But something tells me you’re not going to be thrilled about it.”
I sit back in my chair, closing my eyes, warning myself to be open and ready to go along with whatever this is. Mom’s last request involved a three-day mindfulness retreat in Europe, back when travel wasn’t too exhausting for her. I did it for her, bored out of my mind the whole time, feeling like a bit of a jackass as I forced my breath.