When I went to reply to his latest correspondence to me, I noticed my last email to him had apparently hit the engaging man’s Inbox, according to Gmail, at “2:38 PM.” The clock on my computer and my microwave are perfectly synchronized; they both read 4:30 PM. Hmm… that’s weird. I know time flies an’ all but surely two whole hours haven’t passed since I wrote him. I opened the email of mine he was quoting and saw, again according to Gmail, its sent time was “3:38 PM.”
He must not have been kidding about traveling somewhere. Wherever he was, it was a time zone an hour earlier than mine.
Neither did it escape my attention he’d gotten bolder with his flirtatiousness. Well, he had inferred I found the description he gave of himself attractive-sounding. Tall, dark, and handsome? Yep, that what does it for me. The sole other thing that appeals to me, not included in the romantic cliché, is “older” -- and born-in-1963 darling “DJ Vox” had covered that as well.
Honestly, he’d been giving me prime chances to intentionally stroke his ego; I’d wagered he’d, true to male form, soak it up without thinking of ulterior motives -- mine only being, at the moment, learning who he was. I felt he too had been dishing out adulatory treatment; what he might not have known is that I do think about it and habitually view palavering in my direction as an insincere farce. Simply put: flattery doesn’t work on me. On the other hand, ludic behavior without serious intentions I am all for. And Oh. My. God. was he uber-excellent at being playful! I was tremendously enraptured by our banter.
