Page 6 of The Little Black Book

My phone chimes, and I pick it up, smiling when I see a response.

Stacey:Hey, stranger! I’m back in Vegas, and dinner sounds great! What night were you thinking? I’m free whenever!

I flinch at the overly-exuberant tone I’m reading into the text. I’m sure all those exclamation points are just habitual, and she’s not actually twirling her hair and bouncing on her bed at the thought of going out with me again.

“Fuck, man. Don’t be a douche,” I say, chastising myself.

If Stacey is excited to hear from me, that’s a good thing. Exclamation points are perfectly fine punctuation marks. There’s nothing wrong with them, and I’m being a critical asshole.

Me:How does Friday night sound?

Stacey:Perfect! Pick me up at seven?!?

I clench my teeth and silently order myself to stop reading her texts in a bubbly, over-the-top cheerleader voice. I can’t remember her actual voice, but I’m sure it’s not that bad.

Me:Sounds good. Shoot me your address sometime this week. Oh, and by the way, how’s your grandmother?

Stacey:Oh, she died!

“Shit,” I mumble, quickly tapping out what I hope is a sympathetic response.

Me:My deepest condolences. I’m so sorry for your loss.

Stacey:It’s okay! She was in her nineties and really sick. She’s in a better place now!

And…where am I supposed to take this conversation from here? I don’t want to dwell on her dead grandma, but I also don’t want to brusquely change the subject like the woman is––was––unimportant.

Stacey:15223 Eggshell Place! See you at seven on Friday! I can’t wait!

Oh, thank fuck she’s ending this conversation. Now I know not to bring up her grandmother on our date, and we can start fresh.

Me:See you then!

See? I can be flexible and go with the flow. I added that exclamation point just for her. She sends back a series of smiling emojis, and I bite my lip, unsure how, or evenif, I should respond. Shaking my head, I exit our conversation and pull up Zoey’s number.

“Hello?”

“If someone sends you a text at the end of your conversation consisting only of smiling emojis, do you respond?” I ask, skipping a greeting altogether.

“I’d say that answer depends on the person. Who did you emoji-blast, and what was the conversation about?”

“Please. You know it was not I who did the blasting. I’m not an emoji kind of guy.”

“I don’t know… You did send me a text with an eggplant that one time.”

“Just to ask you what it meant,” I say.

She chuckles, obviously remembering how much fun she had at my expense that day. She swore she had no idea what an eggplant emoji meant and suggested I post the question on social media. Yeah. That was fun. And enlightening.

“Okay, okay,” Zoey says, her laughter winding down. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”

“Well, I have a date Friday night,” I say, then my smile falls. “Shit, I should’ve asked you if you’re available first.”

“It’s fine. I’m free as a bird,” she says, cutting off my self-recrimination.

“Oh, good. Thank you. Anyway, I texted this woman from my list. Her name is Stacey, and I don’t remember a lot about our first date. Only that we didn’t have a second because she had to leave the state to take care of her sick grandmother.”

“Sam…”

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