Thursday, February 2, 2012
My phone rings. I look quizzically at the screen. Not in my contacts. I answer anyway, mostly because I've had great fun lately reporting telemarketers to the FCC. Somehow they have gotten hold of my cell number, which by the way, is on the Do Not Call List. But it's not an offer to refinance my home or sign up for a new credit card. It's Reg. He was on I29 and saw a sign for Brookings. Made him think of me. We talked for fifteen minutes or so. It was comfortable. Pleasant. No plans were made, no offers extended. Nothing that I must decide. I don't know what it means. Maybe something. Maybe nothing. What I do find interesting is that while I deleted all traces of him from my phone, he clearly kept my number. And I'm annoyed with myself over how I have allowed him to addle my brain once more. The feathered thing flies, it seems, whether you want her to or not.