Ghosting Zoë

Part 4

Zoë texted Edgar's number for days.

Sorry we missed each other the other night. Are you OK? |

I found a great old copy of "Tamerlane and Other Poems" in an antique shop. I'd love to show you. |

Busy with work? I know how that is. How are the orphans? |

But nothing. No reply.

When she walked into work one day with a cup of convenience store coffee instead of a concoction from Beans on the Boulevard, Maple said, "Now that's just sad!"

"It was ... convenient."

"And it probably tastes like roofing tar," Maple said. "I know you're loath to return to the Scene of the Crime, but no guy is worth that!"

Zoë took a sip and winced. Maple opened the mini-fridge below the counter and brought out a bottle of white chocolate raspberry creamer. Zoë popped the lid off her cup and gave the bottle a liberal squeeze.

"I suspect there's not enough creamer in the world to cover up that," Maple said, "or the truth. It's time to face the facts, petunia: You've been ghosted."

Zoë was familiar with the practice of just blowing someone off like they didn't exist, severing all lines of communication without warning or explanation. It had happened to some of her friends. She had even thought of doing it herself when guys had weirded her out, but she never thought she'd be on the receiving end.

She squeezed another dab of creamer into her coffee and sighed.

"It happens," Maple said, patting the bun atop her Gibson girl hairdo. "He's just a guy. The world's full of 'em."

"But he seemed so right," Zoë thought to herself.

She moped around the store, checking her phone every five minutes, until finally Maple took it out of her hands, shut it off and sent Zoë home two hours early.

At her garage apartment, Zoë slipped on a Baja sweater and curled up on the futon. She turned her phone back on and spent the next hour reading and rereading the text messages from Edgar. Her Siamese cat, named Yul Brynner, jumped onto the futon, climbed onto her hip, curled up in a ball and fell asleep. Soon, Zoë set the phone on the burgundy leather steamer trunk that served as a coffee table and fell asleep herself.

She awoke the next morning with a cramp in her back and a pasty taste in her mouth. Sometime in the night, she'd pulled the granny-square comforter off the back of the futon and over her unconscious form without waking up. The cat, as cats are wont to do, had wandered off to sleep somewhere else.

Zoë stumbled into the bathroom and turned the hot water on in the shower. She shucked her outer clothes and began brushing her teeth, absentmindedly watching the bubbles form at the corners of her mouth.

When the heat from the shower steamed over the mirror, she wrote "Edgar" with her finger, drew a heart around the name and then a question mark. She was staring at her artwork when Yul Brynner yowled like only a Siamese cat can.

"Wha-at?"

The startled Zoë dropped her toothbrush into the sink and looked at the beast, who was sitting atop the hamper and staring daggers at her, as if to say, "You pathetic mess!"

Zoë looked back at the mirror and said, "You're right, Yules, as usual." His duty done, Yul Brynner hopped to the floor, straightened his back, lifted his tail and padded away. Zoë wiped the word from the mirror with a towel, looked at her loose brown curls falling over one eye and blew them out of the way with a puff of air from the corner of her mouth.

Then she finished undressing and stepped into the shower to wash away the memory of the abortive love affair.

A nice long shower has washed Edgar out of Zoë's life and heart for good. Or has it? Find out in Part 5.

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.