Three days after we matched on Bumble, we’d exchanged maybe five messages. Then he told me he hated typing with his thumbs and suggested we talk like adults. I gave him my number. Five minutes on the phone seemed like a reasonable way to see if we could hold a conversation before making plans for a drink.
He called at 5:15 on a Tuesday. I picked up and got wind, an engine, and what sounded like gravel crunching under tires. Somewhere in there was a man asking if I could hear him. Then he yelled that he was getting on the interstate. The first thing I learned about him over the phone was that his truck’s Bluetooth could pick up practically everything.
I should’ve hung up after five minutes. We went forty. Every time I tried to wrap things up, he remembered another story. A semi would pass on his left, and he’d raise his voice just enough to make me wish I could hear a little less of him. I’d gone into the call wondering how we’d get along over a drink. By then I was mostly wondering how much farther he had to drive.
Then we pulled into Wendy’s. I say “we” because I was apparently coming with him. He interrupted our conversation twice to order, and at no point did he mute the call. I sat there with the phone pressed to my ear while a man I’d never met argued about barbecue sauce packets. I don’t remember what we’d been talking about before that. I do remember the barbecue sauce.
A quiet room and a cup of coffee would’ve been plenty. I’d have happily given him five minutes there. What I still want to know is at what point, while yelling over eighteen-wheelers or negotiating for extra sauce, did he think, “This is going well”?
