#4 called! Woop-deee-doooo!

That’s the end of the excitement. Read on.

My week had been pretty average by all accounts. Nothing interesting had happened. I didn’t even get a chance to spend money in an interesting way, and having coffee with my lovely housemate doesn’t count (he is unlikely to take a wife, and all we did was gossip about the other people we live with). So imagine my utter joy and surprise when #4 rang me on Tuesday. Ha. Told you he would. At least that’s what I thought when I looked at my phone screen. I was just about to go in for a teaching session but I was five minutes early, and I did not want to hurt the man (or Grandpa, as my friends call him on account of his senior-ish age...don’t worry, he is under 40. By a considerable number of years, but a bit too old to be referred to by my standard ‘boy’), so I decided to pick up.

Me: Heeey... (in the sexiest twang I could master while standing in a hospital corridor).

4: Hey (oh man, that Barry White voice that threatens the integrity of my bladder sphincter every time I hear it, and definitely takes out all my knee supports: I sank into a chair pretty quickly lest I collapsed and peed my pants- did not feel like being treated for a seizure today).

Me: Hey (again, I know). How are you? (My voice was now down to a just barely audible whisper).

4: What?

Ok, so maybe my voice really was a whisper. Argh.

Me: How are you?

Heads turned, cheeky grin on my colleagues’ faces. They all knew. I was talking to a boy/man-friend/thing.

4: I’m good. Quick question...

That right there, is the sound of a conversation about to implode. My legs regained their former strength and I stood up. Some shit must be taken while standing to attention. It’s the only way it’ll miss your face.

4: What time is it there?

Huh? What now?

Me: Uuum, it is 4.25pm and 35 seconds (The question caught me off-guard, and as someone with plenty of exam coaching, I answered what was asked, albeit in far too much detail). Why?

Did I hope he’d finally decided to visit me? Unrealistic dreams are made of such.

4: I’m organising a conference call, and wanted to check you guys not affected by daylight savings.

(Which guys?! Whatchoo talking about?! We don’t do conference calls. Ah that’s right. You’re not talking about me.)

Me: No, we’re still three hours behind. I’ve got to go now, talk to you later?

4: Cool.

I don’t know who hung up first, but I know that 2 hours later, I text first. A nice apologetic message for being a little abrupt, and checking if he was free, because I was about to betray my own bad-assness and call him. A curt ‘in the bar now’ put paid to that thought.

I sat in my room a little shell-shocked. Bemused. I don’t know what the correct descriptive term is. But I was it. He really called to ask me the time. Google? No? I guess I missed the news about their little altercation. The 4 and Google Feuds. The Quatre Google Crusades. The Confrontation of Cuatro and Google. I could carry on with this, but it’s just allowing the ‘WTF’ feeling to fester. So I’ve stopped.

What’s his plan? I don’t know, other than not feeling inferior to #3, and replaced by #5, both of which are not inconceivable at this moment in time, I really do not know what he is playing at. My initial reaction was he’s being an idiot, but we all know that’s not true. So, the only alternative is that he is up to no good. There is no way a guy will call a girl on a different continent, at some significant cost to himself, to simply ask what time it is. That’s what girls sometimes do. We ring, with nothing to say, then ask if you know what time our favourite glee-type show is on the box (of course you don’t, but now we’re talking). So I surmised that he wanted to talk. Or break the ice, or something equally banal. But I still can’t work out what’s with the rudeness. I am, wait for it, flummoxed. I really am. Help.

While I try (not very hard, it has to be said, because all I am doing is ranting) to figure out what his game is, I am playing the Warfare of Wills, which I am hell-bent on winning. I am not going to call, text, or e-mail him, or any of his friends. No. He did get under my skin, but in a bad way. In a not-rushing-to-speak-to-you way, and so if he wants to talk, he better man up (you’d think he’d have enough practice at this), and act right. Let’s wait and see, watch as The Chronicles of 4 unfold. He is starting to look like a past tense. *I’m walking away, from the troubles in my life...* (The Troubles of Four, as told by Google.... no? Ok, I’ve really stopped).

Ps. Soon to be taking auditions for possible #5s. All Espanols welcome. And if you resemble Benicio Del Toro (Che), I have a double bed. #Thatisall.