Ghosted

I spinned the L.A. dating Wheel of Fortune, and asked for her number. I especially remember her blonde curls and crystal blue eyes. We hit it off despite fundamental differences. I’m not religious while she was fervent about her weeknight Bible study classes and Sunday chapel. 

We laughed a lot in six months. I appreciated her outgoing and cheerful demeanor, a sharp contrast to my own mind that I monitor like a lunatic in a Supermax prison and filter carefully before speaking. We haunted L.A.restaurants, getting loaded on red wine and food, and spent Sunday mornings, hunting scented candles and avocados at local farmers’ markets. 

I assumed her random work getaway was one of those trips where they pat each other on the back and tell each other how great everybody is. She said that they were ziplining up north or maybe dog-sledding in Alaska. I didn’t remember, but she could fill in the details when she returned a week later.  

“Are you back?” I texted. 

NOTHING.

“How was your trip?”

NOTHING.

My calls went to voicemail. I thought maybe she was in an accident or in a coma somewhere in South America. I Facebooked messaged her best friend who supposedly went with her, but she never replied. Maybe she got caught in the crossfire when they were gunned down by terrorists. Vanished off the face of the Earth. I asked a comedian with much more dating experience for advice who burst out laughing. 

“Dude, you’re ghosted. She’s dead to you now.” 

Ghosted - L.A. dating at its best when it’s time to move on. Cold, calculated, brutal. 

“What now?” 

“You try again when you’re ready and don’t have expectations.” 

I saved her number in my phone and added R.I.P. next to her name. Spin again.