Social Guy called me up in the middle of the afternoon, for no particular reason, just to chat for twenty-three minutes. Yes, I have a timer on my office phone. I also have caller ID, and I felt kind of happy when I saw his number on the display, and I am a freak and I do not know what I am doing.

The conversation was light and flirty, and we talked about what time to meet at the concert venue, and did I want to grab a bite afterward, maybe at this Mexican place with really strong margaritas? Oh, sure, sure, sure. Okay, I said, IT'S A DATE. Okay, it's a DATE, he said, and I heard a sneaky smile in his voice. Which is all well and good except I think I told him just last week that we could not go on a date because we are FRIENDS. And now I have actually used the word "date" in reference to this outing, and I am a freak and I do not know what I am doing.

And because he has had an unlucky streak with electrical things like washing machines and garage door openers and computers, I told him he is not allowed to touch any of my appliances. This would seem to imply that I expect him to be within arm's reach of my appliances, i.e., in my apartment, at some point. This implication could be further supported by the fact that I came home tonight and went on a cleaning frenzy as if I were planning to invite someone over, and I am a . . . well, I'm sure you see my point. I mean, I dusted and everything. See?

Before we hung up, he said, "Okay, I'll talk to you tomorrow." Tomorrow? Beg pardon? Two days in a row? We're doing that now? Oh, no. No-no-no-no-no. That's just, just, um, I don't know. Ow, my stomach.

It is 10:14 p.m. and my next-door neighbors are building something. Or demolishing something. Either way, I don't think that's allowed, I really don't.

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