The guy in the yellow t-shirt hasn’t called me. I’m trying not to obssess but it’s been twelve hours, six minutes and twenty-two seconds since we met and I haven’t heard a word.
I could call him but I’m a little shy and my mother taught me to never make the first move.
So why hasn’t he called? I’m going through the following scenarios:-
- In therapy working on his disorders.
- In mediation with the soon to be ex-wife.
- Did his own laundry and washed his phone.
- Deeply religious and doesn’t use the phone on Shabbat.
- At the SPCA adopting a puppy to impress me.
- He’s flaky.
- Got mugged and had his phone stolen.
Or he’s out shopping for a new soft, very sexy and irresistible Scotch plaid flannel shirt.
But how long does it take to buy a shirt. Thirteen hours? Fourteen? Maybe he’s with a seamstress right now having one stitched, monogrammed and impeccably tailored.
A man in a perfect hand-made shirt? Sexy. Delicious. Irresistible.
I’m going to call him.
I never listened to my mother anyway.