She saw him at a party, got his number and started a confounding over-the-phone relationship.
(from The Paris Review #197)
“What do you look like, anyway? Maybe I remember seeing you.”
“I’m about forty-eight years old.”
“No,” I flipped over onto my back and put an arm over my eyes, “I can tell from your voice you’re younger.”
“I’m attached to a breathing machine.”
“Okay, fine—don’t tell me, look, I’ve got to go.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that kind of joke—I mean, everybody says stuff like that. Why can’t you just tell me what you look like?”
“Okay,” she said. She sounded shy now. She thought around and said, “I guess I’m normal looking.”
“I’m twenty-five. I have my hair cut into bangs.”
“I don’t want to say any more than that.”
I miss this kind of confusion. So. I enjoyed this story. You can read the whole thing here. Pardon me. I haven’t done one of these in a while. I’ve banned bedtime Redditing in an effort to encourage a more regular sleep pattern. Bedtime reading is encouraged, for now. But this story didn’t make me sleepy.