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Preston Michael Shaw, Esquire
My phone rang two minutes after I hit send.
Steeling myself, I clicked the button.
“What? Are you kidding? Did you say that to get me to call? No, of course you didn’t. Why? Why would you quit?”
I shocked myself by laughing. “I’ve never heard you say so much in one breath before.”
“You barely know me.”
“I want to know everything. How you sound when you wake up and how you say goodnight. The food you pick for breakfast. How you decide which tea for the day. I want to watch you pick out a peeing llama.”
I couldn’t tell if the sound she made was a laugh or a sob. “Preston, you’re not changing the subject.”
There was no stopping my smile. “You called me Preston.”
“I’m worried about your mental health.”
“You should be. I’m not right when you’re gone.”
“Preston,” she said, softer now. “What are you doing to me?”
“When you’re ready to hear it, I’ll tell you.”
She took a shaky breath. “What if I never am? Then what?”
“I will wait.”
She hung up on me. And I smiled because I knew she was thinking about what I’d said.
She was thinking about us and what we could have.
All I was asking for was a chance.
Sunday 2:49 am
To whom it may concern:
I’m folded on my side in a couch-slash-bed with my knees to my stomach. My mom is the big spoon.
Unsincerely Yours,
Ryan G. Moon
Sunday 2:54 am
Ryan G. Moon,
Does she give good spoon?
Sincerely,
Preston Michael Shaw, Esquire
Sunday 2:57 am
To whom it may concern:
