I like him. I feel all the physiological symptoms of it. Just the thought of calling him was exciting. And at the same time I was terrified, hesitating, requiring deep breaths before pressing a button, and I questioned how to even start the call.

“Hello, Patrick.” 

“Good morning, Patrick.”

Are they the same? Do I jokingly add, “Should I call you gramps or dad?” How long should I pause to make that joke? Do I make it?
I didn’t know he was 60 until over halfway through our exchange of 30 emails thus far. He wrote that he hoped he had not been deceitful in any way of this fact. I knew he had to be older by his song choice and his jokes, but didn’t know how old until he said it. And I liked the jokes.

My heart sank when I read that line. I felt depressed. I felt lonely and I cried.

But, after thinking it over, speaking my heart as I have with other messages, I wondered why should anything be different?

We are both mature, competent adults well over 18, so why should age matter? I am not blind to what differences and conplications such an age difference might bring. My own parents were 11 years apart, and it did rise to the surface over the years.

Our correspondence continued. Why should anything be different just because of age?

I want people to enjoy my life with. I want to be with people who make me laugh. I want to share my life with people who make me happy.

Reading his emails before bedtime makes me happy. Reading my saying so made him happy.

I dialed. Voicemail. Damn.

But I like his voice. I hung up and dialed again. I really do like his voice. I left a brief message that time, nervous and unsure what to say. It’s not like I had prepared for this. I hope he likes mine.

Is it terrible that I want to dial again just to hear his voice again?

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