The aftermath

I wasn't sure quite why I had done it. After looking at me as if I were from Pluto, Sharon turned around and walked off slowly, in a state of utter shock and disbelief. I hung my head, went back into the house, and fixed myself a bowl of chicken noodle soup.

The next few days I took long, sullen walks all over the city. 'Why?' I shouted silently to myself. 'Why? Why? Why?' I kicked my way past train tracks, through withered chicory and geriatric dandelion, amid tall stands of fertile ragweed. I could find no answers in my mind to explain what I'd done--just mental static.

By evening, I had given up all attempts at self-analysis. There's nothing that a little mobile technology won't cure, however. I dialed Terry's number.

'Terry, help me,' said I.

'Of course,' Terry said. 'What's the problem?'

I paused, considered for a moment some outrageous lie: I had gone to the zoo and been mauled by an escaped zebra; I had eaten shoes.

'Two days ago, I turned Sharon down for a date,' said I, 'and now I'm heading over to Samantha's, for the third time since Thursday, to "play."'

'Wow,' Terry laughed. 'You really are in deep.'