In the Hours Before He Writes Back

Waiting for him to text back — Or, notes on a man who may not exist

I tried to read. Picked up a book I bought at the Zurich airport last summer — an international bestseller, according to the cover. A few pages in, it was all about some mousy woman, the length of her skirt, the way she smoked. I lost interest.

I thought about putting something mindless on the TV, but the air conditioner was too loud, the cat wouldn’t stop meowing, and I was cranky, sunburned from yesterday. It was already 1 p.m. and I was still curled up on the couch in my nightgown. I hadn’t washed my face or brushed my teeth. I’d eaten two slices of cold pizza with chili peppers that were now burning my throat.

What was I waiting for?
What was I going to do with this hot summer day?

If I’m honest: I was waiting for him to text.

Last week, I told him again that I like erotica — not porn. A distinction he can’t seem to grasp. Every so often, late at night, he sends these offhand messages that turn me off completely. I want him to say exactly the right things. Clever. Poetic. He used to know how. He used to make me feel so beautiful, I let him touch my lower belly — that soft, squishy part I’ve always loathed.

I think about our sneaky lunches. His button-down shirts I’d unbutton right at the bar. Back when I was fun. Irritating, probably — but fun. He’d tell me what to wear: a summer dress with easy access. No makeup, or barely any. Hair down so he could play with it. He’d order the best añejo tequila. We’d sip, play footsie, breathe each other in. Then steak. He liked to watch me eat.

“I love that you’re a girl who eats,” he used to say.

Boutique hotels across LA. Santa Monica. Even, hilariously, Glendale. Room service. Jacuzzis. Balconies. Back when Craigslist still had “Casual Encounters,” we’d lie in high-thread-count sheets, high, drunk, full — fantasizing about adding a third. We never did. I was always too afraid to fall asleep in front of him. But I always did. He’d watch me sleep like he watched me eat. Listened to my snores. My mouth-breathing. My drool. Nothing horrified him.

He carried this giant black overnight bag full of vitamins, supplements, anti-aging creams. Ran miles every day. His body showed it. When he started balding, he got depressed. A year later, the bald spot was gone. I never asked. He never offered.

Once, we ran into my friends at a bar — all bearded, all in band T-shirts. A week later, he showed up in stubble and a Ramones shirt. It didn’t matter. He was tall and classically handsome. He could wear anything. And he always smelled incredible. I used to ask what scent it was, then buy it for myself — just so I could smell like him in the long gaps between us.

He’s rarely in town. Always on location. But won’t say for what. When you Google him, there’s nothing — no IMDb, no socials, no divorce record. Like he doesn’t exist. P and C — separately — said they think he’s Mossad. I joked about it once, after too much tequila. It’s the only time I’ve seen him angry. His face darkened. He went silent. We didn’t talk for months.

I’ve been to his places: Echo Park, Coldwater Canyon, Santa Monica. They felt like his. Not like he was house-sitting, like V always is. The only other time he got mad was when I paid for my own dinner at Hotel Figueroa.

“Is this how it’s going to be from now on?” he asked.

When we’re together, the world disappears. No past. No future. Just pheromones and oxytocin. I know all his secrets — or at least the ones he gives. He stopped counting lovers after 300. I know about his childhood. His mother. The men. I love how strangers stop and stare when they see him. Might be his height. Might be the way he moves — like he owns his body. But I know he never feels enough.

He asked me to marry him once. I said no. I wanted to remain a fantasy. I knew I couldn’t keep up appearances forever. He’d find out who I really am: flawed, medicated, self-conscious.

I’ve lost track of how long we’ve known each other. Three marriages between us. Two failed. His brief affair with his therapist — my blonde doppelgänger. My fraught thing with P. No photos. No gifts. Nothing tangible. He always wanted to take me lingerie shopping. I never went. Wanted to seem above all that. He never let me take his picture — but he gave me his credit card. The name on it was always some version of the one he told me.

If he saw me now… Bloated. Sunburned. Lonely. My legs need shaving. My nightgown is a sad mistake. My hair’s in a wilted little top bun. It used to take me twenty minutes to get out the door. Now it takes an hour — and I still look like I did nothing.

Do I love him? Or just the idea of him?

I love his skin. His face. His chest. His taste in food, in music, in cars. He still makes me feel beautiful. That feeling is rare now — and I know it’s a kind of gift. But it’s not the same as love.

The last thing he said to me was:

“You don’t understand that I need you. I really need you. I need you in my life forever.”

And still, I wait for him to text.