I take a deep breath before reaching for my phone for the seven-hundredth time today. I texted my girl a good morning gif hours ago and haven’t heard anything back before Cross showed up. There’s a notification on my screen indicating she sent a photo. Throat suddenly dry, I tap on the banner. A millisecond later, I’m looking at Barbara’s smiling face, tiny tables and chairs empty behind her, except for badly-cut paper hearts. I tear my eyes away from her lips to look at the text.
Firecracker:
Valentine’s Day decorations are ready!
Swallowing hard, I type out a reply:
Little bee…
You’re absolutely stunning.
God. Damn.
I can picture her taking and retaking that selfie, nervous about ‘Seb’ seeing her for the first time. The irony is fucking delicious. She’ll never know the many ways I’ve seen her by now. My phone goes off in my hand.
Firecracker:
Upon receiving a selfie, it is polite to send one back.
But thank you
Shit. I was afraid of this. And planned accordingly.
I run a hand over my hair, then look down at myself. Sweatpants, a T-shirt from my favorite microbrewery, bare feet. That won’t do. It’s not giving Sebastian, the wealthy investor. So, I strip and pull out my favorite dark-wash jeans and a black Hugo Boss shirt. I put them on, but don’t button anything, then roll up my sleeves. Next, I strap on my TAG Heuer and a paracord bracelet. Finally, I grab the mask I ordered just for the occasion: ultra-glossy black with yellow neon accents forming a stitched mouth and eyes.
Angling my chair so the monitors behind me flash their Matrix-style screensavers, I leave one lamp on to the side, spotlighting my abs and theDeath Before Dishonortattoo scrawled just above my low waistband. The coordinates inkedbeneath it gleam faintly in the light. I use a remote to snap a few shots, studying each like evidence before picking the one I know she’ll fixate on.
I send it off with a short text:
Working from home, but not the way I want to.
I watch as the message gets delivered, followed by a read receipt. A minute passes, and I can imagine her zooming in on my abs, maybe trying to read the coordinates tattooed under the larger script. Then she starts typing. Stops. Starts again.
Firecracker:
Why are you hiding your face?
I exhale and type the response I had prepared:
Maybe I’m famous?
Firecracker:
Or you’re full of crap
How do I know that’s even you?
Sighing,I grab a pen and a sheet of paper, scrawling a quick message:For my little bee. I even add a crude sketch of a flying bee with a crooked heart. Then I take another selfie, the note resting just above my tattoo. Perfect. I send it off.
Firecracker:
Okay, maybe it is you. But I’m still mad you won’t show me your face.
Chuckling, I tap out my response:
I’ll make it up to you tonight. Got to get back to work
Then I mutemy phone and toss it aside. The temptation to keep texting her is strong, but I know better. Let her stew a little. Let her miss me. As they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder. She’ll have her fill of me tonight.
