I Fell In Love With A Stranger

It was a Sunday afternoon like any other. I had just finished the last of my weekend chores which, this week, included drafting a Pulitzer-prize winning manuscript for Rick Bragg, intercepting and deciphering encrypted messages as part of yet another covert CIA operation and making a carafe of Minute Maid in just 30 seconds. I was about to move on to my more difficult tasks of the evening when my cellular decided to catch my attention by starting to ring.

I didn’t recognize the number — except for the fact that it was prime — but I answered it almost immediately anyway. There was a silence. I said, “Hello?” with the type of sheer confidence you gain only after treading water in the Nile for three days in a row. After a momentary pause, I heard a young girl — of about 25 with the most exotic and gorgeous eyes I could ever imagine, long beautiful silky black hair, and a white cardigan top — say “Hi.. is Mandy there?” The voice was sweet, honest and apologetic. I thought for a moment on how to reply. I was in love with this girl. I wanted to tell her but there was no chance of that without sounding over-bearing and slightly creepy. Instead, I opted for this classic line: “Sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong number.” She was confused. It was absolutely adorable. She bit her lip and inquisitively asked, “Wait, is this 949-xxx-xxxx?” I told her it was and has been for many years. In fact, I was surprised she hadn’t called sooner. She nodded and accepted her folly.

Her face was flushed with a rosey red glow. The shade and hue of red you get only after you’ve mistakenly called a handsome boy on a Sunday afternoon looking for a make-believe Mandy. She apologized again and I wished her good luck in her search. She let out an giggle of Angelic proportions. And just as quickly as it all began, it ended. It was me and the dial tone once more alone.

Adieu. Navid.