I looked at my cell phone, silently perched atop my desk. Imagine what a marvel it would have been fifty years ago, this small silver device that can access most every phone in the world. Now, however, it was destitute; an old, scratched Nokia which, compared to the gleaming Blackberries of my wealthy peers, brought me shame at every public phone call. At the moment, though, the phone wasn’t the problem. The number was.
Had I written it down wrong? Had he mistaken my shaky fours for nines? I wracked my brain, attempting to conjure the image of that beer-splattered napkin, oh so many nights ago. Well, two nights ago, to be exact. Nothing came. I remembered how we met; how, in my startlingly high heels, I slipped on the wet floor, and how his toned arms had caught me on the way down.
I tossed the phone on the bed with a scowl. My expression immediately changed to one of horror as it bounced off of the mattress and fell with a loud clatter onto the hard wooden floor. I scrambled to pick it up, just as the screen lit up. My eyes widened.
Unknown number.
“Hello?”
I was breathless.
“Hey, is this Tamara?”
That voice. Oh god, that voice.
“Yes.”
“You okay?”
“Um…”
“So, listen, I’m calling to ask for my money back?”
My heart stopped.
“Wait. What?”
“To your place? When you passed out? The address was in your purse.”
I frowned.
“What?”
He sighed.
“The floor was slippery. You fell, you passed out, and I kind of felt sorry for you, lying on the couch next to all those couples making out. So I sent you home. But it cost me forty bucks. And money doesn’t grow on trees, you know.”