Then I panicked. I would have to call him. He loves me, I thought, mentally stripping a daisy of its petals. He loves me not. He needs a pianist for his birthday party to which he will ask some other girl. He wants to ask me to a party. He needs to know the name of a Baroque composer for a history exam and figures I’ll know. He wants my company. He cracked a rib falling down and wants to sue me. Eight-six-nine, six-one-seven-eight. It was a pretty catchy number. I might set it to music. Setting it to music would definitely be less traumatic than dialing it. I eyed the telephone. Previously it had been a small white object with a gentle bell. Now it was The Enemy. The more I thought about telephoning Ted, the more I thought it was a miracle that anybody ever got asked out on any dates at all—considering the courage it takes to dial a number and ask a question. I remembered the shape of Ted’s nose and the way he had fed me petit fours. Love, I told myself. He wants to get to know me better.
