Ghosting Zoë

Part 2

The words "the guy" rang in Zoë's ears like someone shouting "Loser!" into the Grand Canyon.

Who had she dated lately? Eli, who lived at home with his mother and his penny-farthing collection? Cosmo, who handcrafted soap from ethically sourced ingredients and sampled it once a month? Atticus, who ran the alternative tabloid weekly and left Zoë for his stockbroker?

Each had been more fascinated with his possessions, his product, his cause ... than her. A hopelessly romantic, although hopelessly pathetic, "lamb" might not be so bad.

The serenity chimes rang, and Zoë looked up to see Chuck the delivery guy approaching in his blousey brown shirt and brown Bermuda shorts. With his free hand, he removed his cap, exposing a head of fine flaxen hair that seemed to float off the top of his head.

"Gotta box for you ladies," he said, setting it on the counter. Then, looking at Zoë, he added, "Looks like you got a little something on your skirt, there."

"How can you tell?" Maple said, squinching her nose at Zoë.

"Nah, it's lovely," Chuck said, looking at Zoë. "Just lovely."

Suddenly, the store became quiet. Maple made the awkward-turtle gesture with her hands.

"Try a little dish soap and vinegar on that," Chuck said after a pause. "Come right out! That's what my nan used to do."

With a wave of his hand and a parting gong of the serenity chimes, he was gone.

Zoë shook her head, slit open the box with an X-Acto knife and began unpacking the shipment of geodes, but something else was on her mind. About a third of the way through the box, she reached for her phone.

Still not Annabel. |

| That's okay ... sorry I bothered you.

So she gave you this number? |

| Yes. Why would she do that? We really seemed to be hitting it off.

I don't know. It's probably just her. I'm sure it's nothing you did. |

Zoë set a few more geodes on the shelf. The purple ones were her favorites.

What *did* you do? |

| I read her my latest love poem.

Zoë's heart skipped a beat. He read her a love poem ... that he wrote himself? How darling is that? Then she scoffed to herself. "Love poems. How good could they be?" she mumbled. She felt Maple's eyes peering over the counter in her direction.

Zoë cleared her throat, straightened her back and typed:

You write poetry? Are you a writer? |

| Writing's more of a hobby. I majored in creative writing and minored in American literature at the University of Virginia.

Zoë gasped! One of her heroes, Robert F. Kennedy, had earned his law degree at the University of Virginia, and she had always wanted to attend there.

"Are you alright over there?" Maple called while wiping her pince-nez on a handkerchief embroidered with a map of Middle Earth. She placed one hand on her hip, perched the glasses on her nose and stared at Zoë.

"Oh, fine. Um, it's just these geodes. Brilliant."

So what do you do for a living, Edgar? |

| I work for a nonprofit. It's not much. We raise funds to provide arts opportunities for orphans.

Zoë held her phone to her chest, bit her lip and looked at the ceiling. She felt a tear slip out of the corner of her eye.

| So what do I call you — if I can call you — other than "not Annabel"?

Zoë's hands were shaking. She could barely work her thumbs.

I'm Zoë ... |

She watched the cursor flashing on her phone. It seemed to be daring her, flashing in Morse code, "C'mon, coward!" But before she could continue ...

| Like Zooey Deschanel but with fewer letters. And more beautiful, I bet.

She fairly beat the letters into her iPhone.

Would you like to get together for coffee? |

Will a tall cup of Edgar be the perfect addition to Zoë's menu of life? Find out in the next chapter.

This is a complete story to be posted at regular intervals.

R.J. Post is the author of "Lion Taming, Dating and Other Dangerous Endeavors" and "A Shovelful of Winter," which are available on Amazon.