February 2005



I wrap you around all of my thoughts,
boy ur my temporary high

– Beyonce
Jack never gave me his phone number.  Never wrote it on my trembling hand, or took my phone from my trembling hand, leering while saying something stupid, (flirty in his mind).  The clicking sound from his fingers meant I would read what he typed for days, as if he’d handwritten his name and phone number, (on 2005’s version of a cocktail napkin.)  Why hadn’t he called?  It had been almost three months since I was inspired by the Snoop Dogg song, to leave my number on his cabinet, jotted on a corner tear from a Simpson’s calendar.  Rather than wait, I did what any impatient puppy-love injected girl would do:  I asked my brother for his number.  I wouldn't have to. 
The next day as I zipped around William Sonoma in Beverly Hills picking out practical Valentines gifts for Mrs. Z to hand out to her staff, my phone buzzed in my purse. 
805-817-9091. 
I couldn’t think of anyone I wanted to talk to with an 805 area code: I put 
the phone back and focused on the eight minutes I had left to complete the errand.  After work and after confirming our plans, I hung up with St. Croix and held down the 1 key.

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