Read Online LOVE'S GHOST (a romance) by T. S. Ellis - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: T. S. Ellis
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extricate it, and dogs start barking when I do. Anyway, by the time I’ve hit the answer button doing it that way, it’s usually switched to voicemail. And that’s another thing I hate — missing calls.
So the choice is this: hit the button and answer the unknown caller, or let it go to voicemail and worry that I’ve missed somebody important. I know, it’s difficult being me.
But who calls on a Sunday morning? It might be my mother. But she’s more of a Saturday morning person. And Dad would be playing golf. It wouldn’t be Emily checking on me, would it?
As much as it pained me, I decided not to answer the call and left it to go to voicemail. Oh, I hate that. I missed out on a job once because of stupid voicemail.
My irritation extended to the track that was playing. I wanted to move on from Coldplay’s UFO to their Princess of China. I pressed the button on my headphones to move the track along.
“Hello?”
That wasn’t the sound of Chris Martin singing in my ear.
“Hello? Fay?”
It was Carl. Damn it, the call hadn’t been disconnected.
“Hi,” I said.
“Did I interrupt something?”
“I’m out jogging.”
“Good. Hey, listen. I was wondering if you wanted to meet up for lunch this afternoon.” Then, referring to Emily’s remark of yesterday, he joked, “Because I know you hate Sundays.”
I smiled, but realised he couldn’t see my smile on the other end of a phone line, so there would just be silence at his end. The obvious way to fill this silence was to laugh at his joke. So I did, a little. But it was so delayed that it probably sounded sarcastic.
“About one o’clock?”
“Okay. Yes. Thank you.”
I said it before I’d thought about it. When my thoughts finally caught up with my mouth, I regretted speaking. I didn’t want to go on a date. I know not all meetings between men and women are dates. But unless this guy had a morbid anthropological interest in the romantically distressed, this was a date.
“No,” I said. “No thanks.” Contradicting my first answer.
There was silence at the other end of the line. Then he said, “Some people say that in 1962 the world avoided nuclear annihilation because President Kennedy acted on the first communique from First Secretary Krushchev and ignored the second. I’m going to take his lead and ignore your second answer.”
I’d never had somebody use the Cuban missile crisis when asking me out before. It was a novelty. But the thought of going on a date still filled me with fear. I should be honest with him, I thought. Give him the cold shower of my current position.
“Look, Carl, it’s very kind of you, but I’m on a break with my boyfriend. So I’m not in the mood for dating.”
There was another pause at the other end of the line.
“Fay.”
“Yes?”
“What else will you do today? Be honest with me.”
I couldn’t be honest with him. If I told him the truth, the list of things would be so mundane he would scoff at his own pursuit of me. I couldn’t tell him that I would go home, make a cheese sandwich for lunch, clean the bathroom, and watch the most mindless movie in my collection.
So I said, “Oh, just stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“Yes.”
“We spend a lot of time dead, Fay. I don’t know your emotional state. You might be grieving for your man, you might just be confused. All I’m offering you is lunch. The chance to meet and talk to somebody you haven’t met before — isn’t that one of the wonderful things we can do while alive? Meet new people? See this strange world through somebody else’s eyes? I won’t try and kiss you. I won’t even bring flowers. I won’t compliment you. We can talk about your boyfriend if you like. But however well we get on, or not, it’s got to be better than cleaning the house, hasn’t it?”
How did he know I’d be cleaning the house? Good guess I suppose. It’s what a lot of people do, putting it off until just before they have to go back to work. I didn’t
So the choice is this: hit the button and answer the unknown caller, or let it go to voicemail and worry that I’ve missed somebody important. I know, it’s difficult being me.
But who calls on a Sunday morning? It might be my mother. But she’s more of a Saturday morning person. And Dad would be playing golf. It wouldn’t be Emily checking on me, would it?
As much as it pained me, I decided not to answer the call and left it to go to voicemail. Oh, I hate that. I missed out on a job once because of stupid voicemail.
My irritation extended to the track that was playing. I wanted to move on from Coldplay’s UFO to their Princess of China. I pressed the button on my headphones to move the track along.
“Hello?”
That wasn’t the sound of Chris Martin singing in my ear.
“Hello? Fay?”
It was Carl. Damn it, the call hadn’t been disconnected.
“Hi,” I said.
“Did I interrupt something?”
“I’m out jogging.”
“Good. Hey, listen. I was wondering if you wanted to meet up for lunch this afternoon.” Then, referring to Emily’s remark of yesterday, he joked, “Because I know you hate Sundays.”
I smiled, but realised he couldn’t see my smile on the other end of a phone line, so there would just be silence at his end. The obvious way to fill this silence was to laugh at his joke. So I did, a little. But it was so delayed that it probably sounded sarcastic.
“About one o’clock?”
“Okay. Yes. Thank you.”
I said it before I’d thought about it. When my thoughts finally caught up with my mouth, I regretted speaking. I didn’t want to go on a date. I know not all meetings between men and women are dates. But unless this guy had a morbid anthropological interest in the romantically distressed, this was a date.
“No,” I said. “No thanks.” Contradicting my first answer.
There was silence at the other end of the line. Then he said, “Some people say that in 1962 the world avoided nuclear annihilation because President Kennedy acted on the first communique from First Secretary Krushchev and ignored the second. I’m going to take his lead and ignore your second answer.”
I’d never had somebody use the Cuban missile crisis when asking me out before. It was a novelty. But the thought of going on a date still filled me with fear. I should be honest with him, I thought. Give him the cold shower of my current position.
“Look, Carl, it’s very kind of you, but I’m on a break with my boyfriend. So I’m not in the mood for dating.”
There was another pause at the other end of the line.
“Fay.”
“Yes?”
“What else will you do today? Be honest with me.”
I couldn’t be honest with him. If I told him the truth, the list of things would be so mundane he would scoff at his own pursuit of me. I couldn’t tell him that I would go home, make a cheese sandwich for lunch, clean the bathroom, and watch the most mindless movie in my collection.
So I said, “Oh, just stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“Yes.”
“We spend a lot of time dead, Fay. I don’t know your emotional state. You might be grieving for your man, you might just be confused. All I’m offering you is lunch. The chance to meet and talk to somebody you haven’t met before — isn’t that one of the wonderful things we can do while alive? Meet new people? See this strange world through somebody else’s eyes? I won’t try and kiss you. I won’t even bring flowers. I won’t compliment you. We can talk about your boyfriend if you like. But however well we get on, or not, it’s got to be better than cleaning the house, hasn’t it?”
How did he know I’d be cleaning the house? Good guess I suppose. It’s what a lot of people do, putting it off until just before they have to go back to work. I didn’t
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