Milkrun. Sarah Mlynowski

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      “What if he has call display? You already hung up once. It’ll look funny if it says your name twice with only one message.”

      “Soooo clever! You’d be single-girl extraordinaire.”

      “Thanks, but no thanks.”

      I pre-dial the code to withhold my number, then re-dial Jonathan’s. Sam holds my other hand for moral support.

      “Hi. This is Jonathan Gradinger. I can’t get to the phone right now. Please leave your name and number and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. So leave your name and number and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Have a great day.”

      Trying to make my voice sound as natural as possible, I read my scrawled message and carefully place the phone back on the receiver.

      Now all I have to do is wait.

      Hmm, hmm, hmm.

      How am I going to wait all day?

      How is he supposed to pick me up for our picnic and see my clean bathroom if he doesn’t call me back?

      “What should I do all day, Sam? What are you doing all day?”

      “Correcting some homework.”

      “You give homework to fourth-graders? That’s mean.”

      “I have to give a little homework.”

      “Wanna go shopping?”

      “I can’t. I’m broke.”

      “Yeah, so am I. So what’s your point?”

      “I find window-shopping depressing.”

      Oh. Oh, well. I’ll just watch TV then. Jonathan will call back soon.

      Six o’clock. No Jonathan.

      Seven o’clock. I’m sure he’s just out for the afternoon.

      Eight o’clock. He just got home now. He’s turning on the TV. Getting ready to watch a new episode of The Simpsons.

      It’s the last scene. Any minute now.

      It’s over. Any second now the phone is going to ring. Any second now. C’mon, phone, don’t be shy.

      It’s eleven and I’m not waiting anymore. I detest Jonathan Gradinger; he obviously met someone else tonight, fell in love, and forgot all about me. No one will ever love me again. My days will consist of work, my nights will consist of TV, and I will spend Saturday nights from here on at the movies—alone.

      And so I go to bed—alone.

      The next day at work I try to proofread a manuscript, but every time I get to the end of a paragraph I call in for my messages. “No new messages,” the anal recorded bitch says.

      I get home feeling pathetic. But what’s this? From the doorway I see the flashing red light. I leave my shoes on—I mustn’t waste any time!—even though I know Sam will shoot me. Please don’t be Janie, please don’t be Janie, please don’t be—“Hi, Jackie, this is Jonathan Gradinger again. Give me a shout back. My work number is 555-9478. My work number is 555-9478.”

      No waiting this time, no bathroom cleaning, and no red ink preparation. I don’t care if my bed isn’t made, I’m calling him back now.

      “Dartmouth Clinic,” a woman says.

      “Hi, can I speak to Dr. Gradinger please?”

      “Whom shall I say is calling?”

      “Jackie.” I’m still not crazy about the repeating everything on the answering machine thing. Half the point of the recorded message is so you can listen to it again if you need to. Or again and again and again like I might want to do with this one.

      “Jackie who?” Okay this woman obviously wants a piece of my Jonathan. Maybe she’s already had a piece of him. Maybe that’s where he was last night.

      “Hello?” she asks somewhat impatiently.

      “Norris. He knows who I am. He called me. I’m calling him back.”

      “One second please.”

      I’m on hold. What type of date will he propose? You can tell a lot about a guy from the type of date he suggests. Dinner means he’s not afraid to jump right into it.

      “Jackie?” he says in his foxy, sexy voice.

      Coffee means he’s a coward. “Jonathan! Hi.”

      “Great to hear from you.”

      On the other hand, it could mean he’s sensitive. “Great to hear from you.”

      He laughs. “I told you I’d call.”

      “I know.” Drinks would be best. So trendy.

      “How was the rest of your weekend?” he asks.

      “Good, thanks. Yours?”

      “Great.”

      Great? Why great? What made it great exactly?

      “What are you doing Thursday night?”

      “Nothing, why?” Why? I can’t believe I asked him why. Sometimes the stupidity that comes out of my mouth even amazes me.

      “I was hoping you’d come see The Apartment with me.”

      This I am not expecting. Tickets to The Apartment are a gazillion dollars apiece, never mind completely sold out.

      “I’d love to.”

      “Perfect. The show starts at eight. I’ll pick you up around six-thirty and we’ll grab a bite somewhere, okay?”

      “Sounds perfect.”

      “I’ll call you on Wednesday to finalize everything.”

      “Okay.”

      “Great. Have a good week.”

      “You, too.”

      I stare at the dead receiver in my hand and place it down gently in its cradle. I remove my shoes and leave them near the door so that Sam won’t find out that I wore them into the house.

      Yay!

      I’m pretty sure taking me to a play symbolizes more commitment than drinks do.

      Omigod. I’m practically engaged.

      

      “I think it’s a little sketchy,” Wendy says. “He bought the tickets before he asked you?”

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