Text Text Text. Repeat.

Text. Repeat.

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

And then his cellphone buzzed. Again. Again and again as it had done every few minutes for the past however many hours. Mark wasn’t paying attention to the time. Notifications on or off didn’t matter. Volume at an all-time low to try and avoid the anxiety that came from broken concentration. As if Mark was concentrating on anything else. He had compromised with himself and hour earlier and switched the phone to vibrate. He had compromised because it was the only thing to do. He couldn’t ignore her. He didn’t want to ignore her. He was addicted to the device and the dopamine rush that came from the slightest attention granted.

Text text text; and the infinite loop of cellphone dating.

Was dating the right term, he wondered? Game? Flirting? Co-dependent enabling of their worst hobbies and habits? She had called him a flirt. Beth was definitely right about that. He was a flirt. But so was she. Intentionally calling him out was, by design or accident, her form of playful hinting. Serious or not so subtle. It didn’t matter. She was going to tease and going to reply and going to send innuendo through humor, commentary or emoji.

It was his job to reply back. She was faster. He could reply faster. But she was faster with better, well thought out responses. He felt stupid or silly or too blunt and obvious. A game he hated. Love hated. Hate loved? It was a game and he couldn’t help himself. He hated himself for having no control. He loved the pressure, the adrenaline, the anticipation.

“…if it weren’t so late, I’d…” No. Scratch that. That was lame. “…if you were already here, we wouldn’t be talking…” Not clever or subtle. And did he want her there at that moment? Did he want to send the message that he only thought of her in a last minute late night sort of way? He should plan something out. He should make plans in advance. She should too. But he wasn’t looking to fault her for playing along with the late at night routine they had fallen into. He was just as much to blame for that as she was. Both of them could take the risk. They could or should or would. If they were more serious. Were they serious? He wasn’t. He couldn’t ask that. Or if he did it might spoil things. Make her mad. Make them face reality. Make them decide. Did he want to decide? It was safer to play games instead.

Text text text. And the infinite loop. Repeat repeat repeat.

It wasn’t enough. But it was safe. And better than nothing. But it wasn’t enough.

How could he tell her it wasn’t enough without making it seem like he was asking for more than either was ready to give?

He was sleepy. Too sleepy to think of quick responses. Too sleepy to act if it came to that.

“…I should let you go…” But then a moment later another reply. “…we should both go to bed…” “…or be in bed…” “…I’d fall asleep next to you…” “…with you…” “…on top of you…”

They were not fair. Not subtle. But was it a step to something more? Something they actually wanted? Something they could gain? Or was it one more loop in the endless loop. One more empty innuendo with no real promise. A day later, or a week or a month, this conversation would repeat. As it had done so many times before. Again and again. Over and over. Time slipping away. Time wasting repeatedly. How many minutes can you burn or waste or trivialize?

One more text. And then off to bed.

And then one more.

One more. And then again. And then another.

Text text text.

And the loop continues.