Did you know there’s a woman you can call?
She sits with three piles of cards in front of her, lets you pick one (but just one), and tells you not what tomorrow might bring, but what it will.
Did you know that?
No?
Well, now you do.
And now you also know how I spent last night: wrapped up in massive white pillows, on my best friend’s comfy couch, fingers swimming through a sea of digits, punching in that good old 1-800 number.
“Good evening, go ahead,” she says—some older voice, with an accent I can’t place. Sounds vaguely Eastern.
“I have a question about love,” I tell her, and she laughs.
I’m guessing there are a thousand of us a day—sad little creatures, clutching bed linen, praying for some idiot to call. Obviously, something came up. That’s why he hasn’t called. Not because I was too much, or clingy, or flat-out insane—just fate having other plans. Tuesdays and all.
And that’s exactly what she tells me. Well, not in those exact words, more in the way that conveys he’s afraid of me. As he should be. He’s an idiot, and I’m a lunatic.
She says he’s crazy about me. But. Also confused. I mean go figure. Maybe if he went to college he wouldn’t have to feel so spaced out.
Bad vibes she says. I mean duh—how could there not be? I curse his name every morning before I even have a sip of coffee.
But is he going to call?
She says yes. In October.
OCTOBER?!
Mother of God, where even am I in October? Will I even exist? Who waits until October? No one, that’s who. As I sat there pondering on the wide length of time between me and the granting of my wishes, I thought a second opinion may be in order. Like at the doctor’s – when one tells you you’re dying, but there’s still a chance you’re not and all you really need is a good old-fashioned sip of bourbon—well in that case, let’s see what Dr. Cormin says, since Dr. Trusky seems to have screwed it up.
Now I’m typing faster than ever—if speed-texting were a sport, I’d be at the goddamn Olympics.
“Evening, go ahead?” says a man this time.
Yes. A man. He’ll know.
What does this genius say? That I’m emotionally unstable.
Excuse me?
That I’ve inherited bad energy from my great-grandmother and that’s why men just vanish.
Please. I know exactly why they – he – left. I yelled at him like a banshee and refused to get back in the car. He then spent an hour driving next to me at two miles an hour making sure I’m home safe, listening to my rant, wishing for the good old radio times.
And as for the one before—I mean come on, I didn’t know they were friends. I swear.
Anyway, this man on the phone, like many other before him, was no good either, so I call again. And again. And a few more times.
And finally—one of them says, “He loves you.”
Does he now? “When will he call?”
“Soon.”
I hang up. My heart’s still racing, my friend rambling in the background, but the silence feels calmer now.
Peace. Or something like that.
For now.