Then another.
Before I realize it, I’m checking my phone more this week than I have in years. We swapped Grindr for texting somewhere around dawn and the notifications aren’t anything profound. Just Levi’s steady stream of chatter: goofy GIFs, too-long voice notes, occasional selfies with his signature charm. Mortals forget you by dinner. Levi sends voice notes at midnight. The difference is startling.
Levi:How was your morning, mister?
Me:Productive.
Levi:Ah, another romantic rendezvous with city hall, I presume?
I stare at the screen longer than I should. He’s joking, but it’s disarming how easily he notices the patterns of my life. Most people look right through me; Levi looks andsees. It’s equal parts uncomfortable and addictive, being known in ways I never intended.
Me:You make handling affairs sound like a bad thing.
Levi:Please. You’re there more than the mayor.
The next message arrives an hour later.
Levi:Gin or vodka martinis?
Me:Gin. Vodka is for people afraid of flavor.
Levi:Knew I liked you. A vodka answer would’ve ended this flirtation immediately.
Flirtation. That word again, curling in my thoughts.
And another random burst of Levi’s consciousness.
Levi:Do you believe in ghosts?
I pause, blinking at my phone.
Me:Professionally. Should I ask why?
Levi:Because my apartment is haunted.
Me:Based on?
Levi:Keys vanish. Put them down…gone.
Me:Have you considered absentmindedness?
Levi:Okay, skeptic. Then explain the mysterious cold spot in my kitchen.
Me:Your refrigerator?
Levi:You are no fun.
Me:And you’re procrastinating.
Levi:You’re the one replying, mister. You’re literally fueling my distraction.
I smile despite myself. He’s right; I do keep responding. Day by day, Levi reveals little details about himself that I store away carefully, because it’s the most forthcoming anyone has been with me in…who knows how long, and that matters more than it should. Like the way he insists on something sweet adjacent after dinner, often peanut butter straight from the jar. Or his list of hypothetical cats: Opal, Agatha, and Britney. (I ignore the last.)
He makes playlists for everything:Driving at Night When You’re Feeling Epic,Songs to Water Your Plants To, even aThis Is a Flirting Playlist.I discover he hates being late yet always somehow is, and that he sings unapologetically loud in his car. He holds oddly fierce competitions over trivial matters like who can name the most state capitals or who can walk longest without stepping on sidewalk cracks.
He’s lived in Stonevale most of his life but feels a strange pull to leave, even though he says he never will.
Most significantly, I realize how much I enjoy talking to him. It’s more distracting than I’d like to admit.
