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I take my hat off and drop it on my knee, raising a hand to my hair. It’s warm, damp from the heat and being smothered all day. The hollow feeling in my chest becomes too hard to ignore as I reread her text. The feeling is loneliness, for fuck’s sake. I’m lonely, and talking to this stranger, even if I was doing nothing more than sticking my foot in my mouth, helped distract me from that feeling. I hate that I don’t want to stop talking to her.
Me: Let’s talk. Just for tonight.
I send the text without giving myself a chance to be embarrassed by my desperation.
16045557841: Just for tonight.
My relief is instant, filling that hole inside of me enough to soothe the ache.
Me: Will you give me your name? Just so I can change your contact.
16045557841: What about a nickname instead?
Me: Sure.
A pause, like she’s thinking about which name to give me.
16045557841: What about banana?
Me: Alright. You can call me Bo.
I don’t give myself a chance to change the name before sending the message. The history of that nickname isn’t anything I’d like to think about right now. I shouldn’t have given it to her, but it’s not like she’s going to tell anybody. She won’t have a chance to. This is only for tonight.
I change her contact name and smile slightly at the ridiculousness of it.
Banana: Hi Bo. You still haven’t told me if you’re an old creeper.
Me: Would an old creeper actually tell you if he were an old creeper?
Banana: No I guess he wouldn’t. He probably wouldn’t send me a pic of his hot bod though.
I laugh, surprising myself. The rough sound fills the shop before disappearing.
Me: Are you saying that in order to not be an old creeper, I have to have a quote-unquote hot bod?
Banana: Well . . . do you?
Me: Maybe.
Banana: Prove it then.
With a glance at my clothes, I wince. Dirty jeans, even dirtier boots, and a grey long-sleeve with splashes of oil across the front and what I can’t tell is either mud or cow shit on the bottom hem. I haven’t been to a gym in years. I was pushed too hard on the road to have time for breaks long enough to work out, and back home . . . I think my grandparents would find it offensive if I deemed the hard labour here boring enough to seek out a gym.
I’m tall, and while I might not have stacks upon stacks of abdominal muscles, I think I’m pretty built. I haven’t had a woman tell me that in a long, long time, though. Long enough that I don’t know how I’d take it if I heard it now.
Me: Are you trying to flirt with me?
Banana: You wish. I’m merely trying to stay safe.
Me: By looking at a rack of abs?
Banana: A girls gotta eat.
Again, I hear myself laugh, and the sound is still as odd the second time. Fuck, that’s depressing.
Me: Who am I to keep you starving then?
As soon as she reads the message and doesn’t reply, I know she’s waiting for me to send a photo first. I have no clue what to do now. After another sweep of my eyes over my body, I’m saying fuck it and positioning my hat over the dark stain on the hem of my shirt before opening the camera app. Flipping it to front-facing, I extend my arm and try to get as much of my body into the shot as possible, careful not to include my face.
