-| Sold, Sight Unseen, continued |-

The next day at work, I'm oddly distracted. I'm distracted by a five-minute conversation I had with a complete stranger. I'm distracted wondering if he's going to call me again tonight. Maybe he meant that he wanted to call me the same time next week. Or next month. Maybe he's reconsidered and won't be calling me again at all. The thought makes me feel decidedly unsettled.

I leave work early.

I never leave work early, but I figure that if I'm not really working, I shouldn't be at work.

By leaving early, I avoid an hour of traffic. Of course, this then means that I arrive home an hour earlier than usual. I have at least an hour to wait before he might call me again.

I don't know what to do with myself for that hour.

So I poke around on the internet. I take that hot, strawberry-scented bubble bath that I'd thought of yesterday. I shave my legs. I French-braid my hair. I floss my teeth.

In all this time, my phone doesn't leave my side.

At six o'clock on the nose, I'm sitting in the middle of my king-sized bed, focusing carefully on my phone like it's a Ouija board.

The analogy is apt; I almost jump out of my skin when the phone lights up.

Unknown caller.

I hope to goodness it's not really a telemarketer this time.

"Hello?" I answer, almost breathlessly.

"Beth?"

I blink until I remember that I'd told him yesterday that my name was Beth.

"Uh, yeah."

"Hey, this is Drew."

"I remember."

We're silent for a moment. I've thought about this phone conversation all day. Unfortunately, I hadn't really thought past the part where the phone rang.

"So how was your day?" he asks. So considerate. So polite.

"Long."

"Mine, too." His voice is tight, nervous.

We're silent for more moments. I wonder if his day had been long for the same reason that mine was. I wonder what my reason actually was.

"I wasn't sure if you'd want me to call back."

I've wanted to talk to him all day, but I'm not being much help here.

"I wanted you to call me back."

"Good."

Our conversation yesterday had been free and easy. Today, we are both struggling to recreate that feeling, a feeling of complete spontaneity and anonymity.

We're failing.

"What show were you watching yesterday?" I ask.

"I'm sorry…?"

"What show were you watching that inspired you to call me?"

He's silent for a second.

Then, "So I have to caveat this."

I laugh. "Is it that bad?"

"Yes. I was so bored I was watching a chick show. But it had Courteney Cox in it, at least."

"Were you watching Dirt?" I vaguely remember seeing her in some racy ads for a show with that name a while back.

"No, her newest project."

I blink. "Did Dirt get cancelled?"

"Yeah."

Blink and you miss it, I guess.

"So what's this elusive and fully-caveated show called?"

"I'm embarrassed to even be thinking the name."

"Just spit it out."

"Cougar Town." I picture him hanging his head in shame.

"Is the show about Courteney as a 40 plus year-old cougar going after younger men?"

"Pretty much."

Is the fact that he finds a 40 plus year-old woman hot a good thing?

"But to clarify, I'm not in to cougars. I've just always liked Courteney Cox."

Good to know that he's younger than Courteney Cox. I'm about to ask him how old he is when I hear him take a breath.

"So I was thinking," he says. "If this thing between us…whatever it is…is going to continue—and I must say that I hope it does—we're going to need some ground rules."

I'm a little distracted by him telling me that we have a thing. And that he wants this thing to continue. "What do you propose?"

"No details."

I frown. "What do you mean?"

"I think we should agree to keep all the specific details of our lives vague, just in case one or both of us really is a crazy psycho stalker."

He's obviously put some thought into this. His consideration makes me smile.

I say, "I assume that if you actually are a crazy psycho stalker, you're probably outside watching me from my window as we speak."

"Good point."

I look up and validate that my curtains are pulled carefully across my window.

I say, "You don't happen to know what I'm wearing, do you?"

"Uh…would I tell you if I did?"

I laugh. "No, I guess not. What would you guess that I'm wearing, then?"

Whoops. There I go bringing up the potential risqué topic from yesterday, albeit innocently.

"Hm," he says in a silly tone. I envision him tapping a finger against his chin in an exaggerated gesture. "I can tell you what I don't think you're wearing. Would that work?"

"Sure."

"No offense, but you don't seem like the pink silk pajama type."

I look down at my ratty old shirt and sweats. "I'm not."

But I do have a pink silk pajama set hanging in my closet. A gift I never wear. Is it odd that this stranger on the other end of the phone has intuited more about me in five minutes than a person who has known me my entire life?

Our comments about my appearance break the ice.

Drew spends the next several minutes throwing out outlandish guesses about what I could possibly be wearing.

"Flannel nightie?"

"Mickey Mouse boxers?"

"Granny panties?"

"Nothing?"

I laugh at that one. "You wish."

Eventually, I reveal my less than sexy choice of pajamas. Although I might have left out the descriptors of ratty and holes.

"Alright," he says. "Now that the question of your attire has been sufficiently addressed, what say you, fair lady, to my proposition about ground rules?"

He sounds like an old-timey knight. I think it's his attempt at maintaining levity in a situation rapidly spiraling toward something else.

"I acquiesce to your demands, kind sir," I say, quite solemnly.

"Most excellent," he says, equally as solemnly.

"Now I think it's your turn to tell me what you're wearing."

Drew and I talk each night for the next two weeks.

I've come to look forward to our evening chats. Sometimes we talk for minutes, until one of us has to go. Sometimes, that person is me. More often, that person is him. Sometimes we talk for hours. We talk about nothing, and we talk about everything.

Well, not everything.

We both respect our ground rules. We don't drop too many hints about our age, location, or profession. We avoid identifying details that would allow the other person to track us down someday. We're still not convinced that the other person isn't a psycho stalker killer.

I find that it's liberating to talk to someone who (a) can't see you and (b) knows absolutely nothing about you. They don't second-guess, they don't judge, they don't criticize.

They just listen.

Or, at least, Drew listens.

I don't know if this whole thing—whatever it is—would be quite the same if I were talking to anyone else.

Each day, when it's time for us to go, we continue not saying goodbye.

Almost like we don't want to.

A few more days of talking, and I'm getting a little tired of being called Beth. Drew seems to delight in saying my name.

"So."

"Yes, Beth?"

"I have to be honest with you," I say.

"Is there something you'd like to confess, Beth?" He's in a rare mood today.

"Yes."

"Is this the part where you tell me you're actually a dude?"

I laugh. His sense of humor continues to surprise me. "No. I just wasn't exactly honest with you…about something."

"What thing?" He seems tense all of a sudden.

"Well." I hesitate. "My name."

"Your name?" He lets out a breath.

"Yeah."

"As in, your name is not really Beth?"

"Right."

"Huh," he says.

I cringe, feeling stupid. "Are you mad?"

"No," he says, almost flippantly.

"Why not?"

"Because I could never really see you as a Beth."

"Oh."

"And my name is not really Drew, either."

He sounds smug.

"You lied to me!" I say in mock outrage.

"To be fair, you lied to me first."

"Yeah, but you didn't know that."

"Actually, I did."

He sounds even more smug.

"How could you tell I was lying after speaking to me for only five minutes? Over the phone, no less?"

"I don't know. I think it was all in the pause. You paused for a second before you said your name. People tend to pause before they lie. Because good people, like you, are usually uncomfortable with the lie."

I'm floored by his insight. I'm also floored by the fact that he thinks I'm a good person.

"Plus, I didn't really want to give you my real name, either, albeit for an entirely different reason."

"Which is?"

"It's a funny name. My parents are sort of old-fashioned."

"You do realize that you're going to have to tell me your real name now."

"Only after you tell me yours."

"Spill it, Drew."

"You first, Beth. This was your confession, remember?"

"I have a better idea."

"Which is?"

"Let's play a game." I'm bored. I'm sitting here in an empty house. I don't want today's conversation to end.

"A name game?" He's catching on. We play lots of games.

"Yes. If you had to choose a name for me based on what you know so far, what would it be?" For some reason, I'm curious to hear what he'll come up with.

He plays along. "Your name begins with a B, right?"

I'm floored again. "How did you know?"

"Because I figure you gave me a name similar enough to your own that you wouldn't feel as bad about lying."

"You're right." He's nothing if not a sharp cookie.

"Okay, let's see." He thinks for a second. "Girl names beginning with a B."

He thinks some more.

"I don't see you as a Betty or a Brittany."

He pauses.

"Are you a Bertha?"

"What?" I mock-screech. "Not Betty or Brittany, but you go with Bertha? Do you think I sound like a cow?"

He snickers. "I'm kidding."

He pauses.

"Actually, I think you sound like bells."

A tingle travels up my spine.

"I can't believe it."

"What?"

"My dad calls me Bells."

"Holy cow!" he says, excited. "Did I just guess your name?"

"Not quite," I say. "But close. Bells is my nickname. Can you guess my real name now?"

"I'm sure I can." He's confident.

"Well?"

"Bellarina."

"Nope."

"Bellatrix."

"Ha."

"Don't tell me you were named after B'Elanna."

"Who's B'Elanna?"

"I guess that's a no. She was the half-Klingon on Star Trek Voyager." Duh, his tone is saying. "Is that name not ringing any bells?"

"So punny," I say dryly.

He snickers again, then seems to grow serious.

"Isabella."

The sound of his voice saying my name causes that tingle up my spine to graduate to an all-out lightening storm.

"Yes," I say simply.

"Then you lied to me."

"About what?"

"Your name doesn't start with a B."

"I go by Bella."

"And your dad calls you Bells."

"Right."

"I think I'd still like to call you B'Elanna."

I laugh. "I really don't see myself as even partially a Lana. Do you ever watch Smallville?"

"Good point." Lana wasn't exactly everyone's favorite character on that show. I'm surprised he knows that.

We laugh together.

"So," I say.

"Yes, Bella?"

He's having a little too much fun rubbing it in my face that he knows my name. Which brings me to my next point.

"You haven't yet told me your real name."

"That's because you have to guess."

"Shoot. Something tells me your name doesn't start with a D."

His turn to be surprised. "Why do you say that?"

"Because you didn't even bat a metaphorical eye when you told me your fake name. Therefore, I sense that you went all kinds of crazy when picking it out."

"Well, not entirely."

"Explain."

"Andrew Cloodle is my alter-ego. I shortened it to Drew for you."

"Your alter-ego's last name rhymes with noodle?"

"Well, yes." He seems uncomfortable.

"You have an alter-ego?"

He laughs. "Yes."

"What do you use said alter ego for?"

"I use him whenever I feel like dressing up in spandex and running around the house," he deadpans.

"Oh. I guess I missed the part earlier about you being crazy."

He laughs again. For some reason, he seems delighted.

I know how he feels.

I haven't bantered like this with someone in…ever.

"So you actually use this alter ego to…" I prompt.

"To goof off. I actually created him to play World of Warcraft."

"I think I've heard of it."

At my less than positive response, he quickly amends. "But that was several years ago, during college. Or maybe high school."

So he was in college several years ago. Several usually means three to four. I stop guessing at his age when I realize that it really doesn't matter.

I smile. "Are you backpedalling in an attempt not to sound like a complete geek?"

"Is it working?"

"Not really. You've brought up Star Trek and World of Warcraft in the space of five minutes."

"That's because I rock."

"So you're a geek and proud of it?"

"Pretty much."

"What did you say your name was again?" I can't really talk geek, so I figure we need to get back to the point of this whole conversation. If it even has one. That is part of the fun.

"I didn't. You're supposed to guess."

"Okay." I think back to the clues I have so far. Which are none. "All I know is that your name doesn't start with a D or an A."

"That's fine."

"No, it's not. You knew my name started with a B."

"Only because you told me." I just know that, wherever he is, he's smirking.

"Not gonna take pity on me here, are you?"

"Nope."

"Jerk."

"Good guess, but that's not my name."

I blow a raspberry at him.

"Did you just blow a raspberry at me?"

"Yep."

"Huh. I would like to have seen that." His voice is oddly serious.

I look down at the clock and realize that we've been talking for nearly two hours.

"Holy crow. We've been talking for nearly two hours!"

"I noticed," he says dryly.

"And I still haven't figured out your name."

"Well, at least you know that it's not Jerk."

"I don't know; that might have to be your nick name."

"You call me Jerk, I call you B'Elanna." His voice contains too much laughter to be a threat.

"I will figure out your real name."

"I believe you…" his voice trails off, as if he's distracted, "…but it's going to have to be tomorrow. I gotta run."

"Okay."

We hang up.

We're good like that. If one of us has to run, we go, no questions asked.

Despite its length, I feel unsettled about that conversation. It's odd to know that you've been talking to a guy for over two weeks whose name is not really Drew.

I wonder if there's a way for me to figure out his name without him knowing about it.

I grab my laptop and pull up my trusty sidekick, Google. On a hunch, I type in "Andrew Cloodle."

Unfortunately, Google doesn't know any Andrew Cloodles. So I try alternate spellings for the last name. He hadn't spelled it out for me; maybe it wasn't actually spelled like "noodle." Other words that could rhyme with noodle but could be spelled differently include Cluedle, Cludle, and Cludel.

Bingo. An Andrew Cludel has a Facebook profile.

I click the link and see that the profile picture is some type of animated avatar, what I can only assume is a sorcerer. He has a white beard and long, pointy ears. I would almost bet money that this is one of the characters from that Warcraft game Drew had mentioned.

I start laughing. I laugh because the profile shows that it's been active for only a short while—obviously, he's been playing more recently than high school, as he'd claimed. I laugh because the avatar is a sorcerer, but it's wearing a bikini. And I laugh because I have just gotten the best idea ever.

With a ridiculously large grin on my face, I click the button to sign up for a new Facebook account.