Longest Three Minutes Ever.

Also known as "Receiving a phone call from your last paramour, with whom you have not spoken in over six months [despite random and varied and extremely infrequent attempts, by him, to IM or text you]."

He called.

Completely out of the blue, unexpected, without warning. Phone rings, number is viewed, heart stops.

I pick up the phone as if it's the most natural thing in the world. Nonchalant. Cool. Breezy.

He acted as though we had spoken earlier in the day...not months and months before. I was not the typically warm and nurturing and flirtatious RD. I went along with the conversation, making sure to tell him without telling him (because, LBH, he and I are the King and Queen of the Kingdom of Passive Aggressive) that I was great and fabulous and happy and not-giving-a-damn-that-he-had-disappeared-off-the-face-of-the-earth. I had Moved On.

But we all know that's not really the truth. Because that part of me, that part that still thinks of him daily (sometimes even fondly) was kind of giddy that he called. I did not allow any of those emotions to surface. We talked work. We talked generalities. He made references to things we used to joke about.

He has apparently been "busy, very busy" (RD, do not take the bait. Repeat: do not take the bait). He kept asking how I was doing, if I was happy.

Fine. Fabulous. Great. Really happy. Can I assuage your guilt and/or conscience any more?

"We should do lunch sometime soon," he said. I told him he knew where to find me. But I have a feeling that he has a selective memory and won't remember the phone number he used to call ten times a day, no matter the time, just to tell me to go outside and look at the moon or to say goodnight. He won't remember where I live, though he came over often enough. Or where I work. Or anything like that.

But maybe that's a good thing.