How did this happen?
Was this one of those situations where a wrong number had been given out at the bar? Or was it a genuine mistake?
I didn’t understand how people could make genuine mistakes with numbers.
Did nobody save to their contacts list anymore?
Let me tell you, if I was going to send a picture of my boobs to someone, I wouldn’t be typing their number in. I’d be performing an FBI-level check-up on a suspicious person.
I probably also wouldn’t be sending a photo of my boobs to anyone in the first place.
I digress.
What was the appropriate course of action here? I mean, it was seven in the morning and I had to drink my shower, take a coffee, and get to work in an hour.
Wait.
That was wrong.
Drink my coffee, take a shower, and get to work in an hour.
That’s better.
See? It was too early to be contemplating the correct response to a wrong-number dick pic.
Was there a correct response?
Was no response the right response?
This was the kind of adulting high school severely lacked in teaching you. Debating the existence of God has never once helped me pay my taxes, cut my grocery bill, or work out my budget.
Or, as it turns out, handle a dick pic.
Jesus Christ, I’d thought the words ‘dick pic’ far too many times this morning.
I was going to need therapy after this.
I locked my phone and put it screen-down on the table in front of me. I needed to shower instead of think about this for a moment.
I honestly believed that there wasn’t a problem that couldn’t be solved in a hot shower.
I finished my coffee and headed into the bathroom. After I turned on the shower, I brushed my teeth, and when the room was suitably filled with steam, I stripped off and climbed in.
The hot water beat down on me, slicking my long, purple hair to my neck and back as it soaked it through. I closed my eyes and ran my fingers through my hair, and then reached for the shampoo.
As I massaged it in, my mind wandered back to the situation at hand. The easiest thing to do would be to wrinkle my nose up and delete it, then move on with my life. Maybe block the number.
Did the sender know they’d sent it to the wrong person? I know you can’t exactly take back a text message, but I’d like to think that most people would apologize when they realized they’d sent such a personal picture to the wrong person.
So… Chances were, he had no idea he’d gotten the wrong number.
I rinsed the shampoo from my hair.
So, I had two options, didn’t I? Delete it, act like it never happened, and hope that he never texted me again. Or I could send him a quick message that said ‘sorry, wrong number, have a nice day!’
And move on.
I finished in the shower after conditioning my hair and soaping my body and got out. Condensation had my mirror all foggy with droplets running down it, so I wrapped myself in towels and left, making sure to crack open the window so it could dry out.
I dried off and got dressed in leggings and a loose, button-down shirt, then pulled my wet hair up into a twisted bun on top of my head.
I’d made my decision about what to do with this text message somewhere between my underwear getting stuck on my wet shins and almost hitting my elbow on my dresser.
I was going to send him a nice text telling him about his mistake.
I’d want to know.
I snatched my phone up from the table and unlocked it. The message flashed up instantly, and I hit the reply box.
ME: Hey, sorry, but you’ve got the wrong number.
Then, with my conscience cleared and the knowledge that I’d performed my good deed for the day, I left my apartment headed for the florist store where I’d worked for the last ten years.
***
“Thank you, Mrs. Cooper! I’ll see you next week.” I smiled as the elegant lady in her late fifties waved goodbye with her weekly bouquet of lilies in hand.
“See you then, honey!”
The bell above the door dinged twice, once when she opened it and again when it swung shut behind her. The blast of late-summer heat from the outside was unwelcome, but it quickly dissipated as my air-conditioning ate it up.
This was probably the coldest store in town, but I think that was probably the reason why everyone came in during the summer. Sales were up, and it wasn’t just because homecoming season was coming up.
People came into escape the southern heat, then ended up buying things.
I wasn’t against using the weather to sell flowers.
We sold them for dead people, so…
I checked my phone, but the mystery picture sender still hadn’t replied. It was two in the afternoon, so they were either too embarrassed to respond, or they hadn’t seen it yet.
With a sigh, I put my phone back under the counter. I figured I’d keep the text for a day or so before deleting it, just in case he did reply. Knowing me, I’d forget it tomorrow and end up with a random text I couldn’t put into context.
The bell rang again, and I looked up in time to see Halley and Ava at the door. They were both wearing running clothes and had water bottles in their hands, but their expressions couldn’t be more different.
Halley was a little winded, with pink cheeks and a smirk on her lips.
Ava, on the other hand… Well, wisps of her black hair were stuck to her face with sweat. She resembled a tomato, more than anything, and I could feel the murderous vibes that radiated off her.
She stormed past me and went through to the back. There was a clunk as the refrigerator door opened, and I raised my eyebrows as a huge, “Ahhhhh!” filtered through the building.
I turned and met Halley’s eyes. “I see running is going well.”
“About as well as a dumpster fire.” She lifted her bottle and took a long drink. “She is not a runner. She’s worse than you.”
“I can run. I just don’t like to.” I pulled my stool beneath me and sat down. “How long is she going to stand in my refrigerator?”
Halley shrugged, sitting on one of the spare stools in front of the counter. “Presumably until she realizes it’s just as cool out here and she can sit down here.”
“What happened today?”
“The sun,” she replied dryly. “It’s her day off, so instead of getting up to run before work like we normally do, she slept in. She refused to run tonight when it’s cooler, so…” She motioned up and down her body. “Apparently, Ava doesn’t like sweating.”
“Ava doesn’t like anything.”
“I heard that.” There was a clunk as the fridge door shut again. Ava emerged from the back, still looking as if she’d run a four-minute-mile, and wiped the bottom of her tank top over her face. “I like plenty of things, but running in the heat isn’t one of them.”
Unbothered, Halley said, “I told you to wake up early this morning.”
Ava looked at her. “We might have to break up.”
I laughed when Halley rolled her eyes. Since they’d started running a few weeks ago, Ava had threatened it at least twice a week.
It was yet to happen.
“Hey, you guys—”
Halley’s phone rang, cutting me off. “Sorry. Hold on.” She stood to pull it out of the zip pocket in her yoga pants and answered it. “Hello? Yeah—no, shut up… For the love of God, she’s supposed to be supervised! … Ugh, fine. I’ll be there soon.”