Ouch. He didn't call.

As I was leaving, conversation kept flowing. He kept yapping. I kept replying.

It was interesting. He was interesting.

I didn’t have much of a doubt that he would call. It wouldn’t be immediate. But after a few days passed and the likelihood of communication approached zero; I was stunned. And really goddamn puzzled.

Was it me?

“No honey, of’course not! It’s his loss”

Is it? The bible Sex and the City says so! It’s always his loss. Alcohol fades, your facial features become apparent. But never mind that, it’s his loss. Your weight exceeds that of a Hummer. It’s his loss (your gain!). You’re dumber then timber, and surely, that’s his loss (knock on wood).

Maybe it’s you. And maybe it’s me.

Maybe I’m not the epitome of female beauty. Maybe I’m slightly chunky. Maybe my cranial capacity is somewhat lacking. Maybe I’m not funny. Or interesting.

Maybe he’s dead.

“Oh, don’t be so cynical! Plenty of fish in the sea!”

Oh yes, Sex and the City wisdom!

Catfish. Sole. Bottom-feeders. Throw a bait, any bait. Those fuckers will eat it.