Page 7 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Lumberjack
Me:
Are you smiling right now
Wrong Number Guy:
No.
Me:
Liar.
The thing nobody tells you about texting a stranger every day for three months is that it becomes a relationship without anyone signing the paperwork. Somewhere between week two and week twelve, Wrong Number Guy became the first person I talked to in the morning and the last person I texted at night.
Week three, he sent me a photo of a piece of wood. No caption. Just this gorgeous slab of walnut with grain that swirled in it. I stared at it for ten minutes, zooming in, running my finger across the screen like I could feel the texture.
Me:
That's beautiful
Wrong Number Guy:
Pulled it from a barn in Fallon. Hundred years old, maybe more.
Me:
What'll you do with it?
Wrong Number Guy:
Cut it into boards. Somebody'll turn it into a table.
Me:
That feels like a metaphor and I'm not smart enough before coffee to figure out what for
He sent a second photo the next day. Then another the next week. Never selfies. Never his face. Just wood. His shop. Maple sleeping by the mill door. Once, a sunrise over mountains I didn't recognize, with no caption at all.
That was the photo I saved as my home screen.
Week six was the first 2 AM conversation.
Me:
Are you awake
Wrong Number Guy:
Yes.
Me:
Do you ever lie in bed wondering if you're going to be alone forever
Asking for a friend
The friend is me
I am the friend
