Mr. Orange, who I dated over the winter, suddenly texts.
We had had fun. We met at a friend’s Halloween party–I was a geek, he was Mr. Orange from Reservoir Dogs— and instantly hit it off. We had dinner, and then drinks, and then dinner, and then drinks. I was preoccupied with work, and he was the stereotypical busy, self-involved law student. We spent New Years Eve together, and then the first day of 2008 sprawled out on my couch, half-kissing and watching the small-time presidential candidates flounder on C-SPAN2.
And then he didn’t call. Or maybe he did? But I didn’t call back. And he didn’t call back. And so on. And a week later, I assumed it was over. A clean, nice break with no rejection, no tears, no regrets. It was fine. I moved on to the next round of eligible bachelors and chalked up my relationship with Mr. Orange to another law school casualty.
So here I am, lying in bed on a cold Saturday afternoon watching Hannah and Her Sisters when suddenly an unknown number texts me: How are u?
Ah, Mr. Orange. All that schooling and still poor spelling haunts your every letter.
I eventually get him to tell me who it is. I had deleted him from my address book — ouch. And I ask where he has been the last three months. He asks where I’ve been. He says the phone works both ways — ouch.
Wait. What? Mr. Orange thinks I’m the one that broke it off with him.
It all suddenly makes sense. The missed calls. The waiting.
Now Mr. Orange wants to see me. What is this, a Woody Allen movie? He wants to watch the news with me. He wants to send me cute knock knock jokes and drink a drink out of the glasses he had bought me while on vacation in Florida in December. Sigh. Forty text messages later and I laugh to myself, and decide to call my friend who had introduced us in October.
“I’m not surprised,” she laughs. “I’ve said this once and I’ll say it again: They all come crawling back.”