I was sitting at my kitchen table, staring at my phone. I had an urge, a yen, a desire to talk to male person. I had left a message on Mr Wobbly's machine, but besides him, I couldn't think of anyone else whom I could molest at that late hour. I was sure that Currer and his da' were asleep in their Virginny Manse, and I certainly wouldn't want to wake them up.
And it rang. A familiar nasally, Joisey voice asked for me. His timing was immaculate.
It was New York.
He said he was going through camille-withdrawal. I laughed sardonically. I did a lot of that. I asked him if he broke up with his gf (which would explain his recent interest). He acted like it was old news. He asked me if I was going to blog about it. He asked me if I was getting a lot of craigslist action.
Damn right I was.
He said we were doing a metaphorical dance. I expressed shock, considering that I had metaphorically puked all over his metaphorical spats at a certain metaphorical New Jersey airport. He seemed to indicate that that episode, far from ending the dance, was a mere toe-bruising.