I’m in love with a girl on WordPress. It’s this stupid site where people blog, promote products or introduce themselves to the world.
“Nice post,” I said in a comment.
“Thanks,” she replied.
I had every intention of sliding into her messages and furthering some sort of conversation. I mean, I had no idea of whether she had a man, but I thought, what’s her man got to do with me? It’s her business.
I received another notification, and sure enough, it was Rachel. Rachel had blue eyes and long blonde hair to die for, but I was in no shape for romancing this beautiful woman. What could she possibly want to talk about? The more I thought about it, the more depressed I’d become. I opened my browser and clicked on the notification.
Ben, it read. Please tell me more about yourself.
Who the fuck asks lame job application questions? I thought. I shook my head, and a smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. I started typing my response. I’m a guy from Chicago, who happens to be in love with you, I wrote. I had no intention of sending that message. I thought it’d be funny to do so, though. A phone call caught me off guard, and as I went to delete my reply, I hit SEND.
Oh, fuck. I hung up my phone and spilled warm coffee on my lap, soaking my new jeans.
I removed my jeans threw them in the dryer. I interlaced my fingers above my head and paced. I didn’t know whether to send another message, letting her know the previous message was a mistake or seeing what her reply might be. I went with the latter.
A notification blinked on my phone. I clicked the bell. Well, Ben. I am impressed by your openness. But you must realize I hear that every day. What makes you different from the other guys, who say the same thing in more graphic details of what they want to do to me and how?
I stroked my chin and began to write. Looking at your picture was like love at first sight. I sent the message without proofreading. I was too nervous to reread my writing.
Rachel replied: that’s more like it. Meaning, at least you didn’t tell me about how and where you wanted to fuck me. I’m so over those kinds of messages.
I messaged her my phone number, and we texted for five months before we met and fell in love. Because of these creeps sending her messages about how and where they wanted to sleep with her, Rachel had plenty of ideas, and we had sex on pool tables of dive bars (after hours).
We’ve been married for ten years, and some change and a lot has changed, but our love has remained.