To Call, Or Not To Call
When Chloe found me, I was sitting bolt upright in my chair, the slip of paper clutched in my hand. She waved her hand in front of my face, then said,
“Helloooo, anybody home?” When I didn’t respond to that, she slapped me. Hard. That stirred me from my reverie.
“Owww,” I complained, rubbing my cheek, “what did you do that for? That hurt!” She rolled her eyes,
“Well, duh. It was supposed to.” I glared at her and whacked her on the arm. “Ow! Fine. We’re even.” I snorted.
“Well, look what I have.” Her eyes went wide and she made a sort of gasp-choke noise.
“He gave you his phone number?” She gasped, then she started peppering me with questions, “How old is he? What’s his name? Where does he live? Will you introduce me? Does he have any brothers? Has he-” I cut her off with a hand over her mouth.
“Yes, 18, Loki, don’t know, yes, not sure.” Its easier to just answer Chloe’s questions than to tell her to shut up. “Now, can we go home? I’m tired, and yes, I promise to call him tomorrow morning.”