She’d be the first to tell you she’s a shit texter. But not for him. Screw reading emails from professors, or even opening that green app. Instead, let her skeleton jump in her still body when she sees that white and blue icon with a message that has an ‘A’ in it somewhere. It could be him.
Or it could be her pastor, telling her about the youth gatherings across the road by the parkade, something they’d talked entirely too long about on his and his wife’s way to the football game.
Sometimes, however, he would respond. He would never initiate the conversation, but if he ever responded she’d blink at the screen in disbelief. Too good to be true.
How desperate.
She wanted to believe that maybe he was a shit texter too. Maybe he’d been reluctant to ever talk to her because of her resting bitch face. Maybe, in some alternate dimension where she had the balls to go up and talk to him, she’d have a chance.
But she’d always said she knew better. Now if only she could be better.
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