"Nope," he said. "I'm sitting in my office with my feet on the desk. Bad habit, but I'm pretty comfy and I have nowhere to be."
"Good," I told him. "What is your television secret shame?"
We both laughed.
It turned out that he would admit to watching episodes of any of the reality shows about home improvement or home buying.
"I like it when they're choosing between two houses and one is just terrible, like it's a big guess which one they'll take," he said.
"Ugh, sometimes they take the horrible one, though!" I exclaimed.
"Yeah, never buy anything with termites. I don't care if it's in a better school zone," Clint said, his tone completely confident.
We talked for almost an hour, not just about termites and television. We talked about the other hands on the ranch, and I told him about my coworker Sarah, and a few of the other girls at the office.
When we finally hung up, I tidied the house and went to bed, dreaming of steak dinners with Clint.
They were good dreams.
That Friday night, I rushed home from work. If he was going to take me out to a steak dinner, I wanted to look great, and I only had an hour.
I hopped into the shower and quickly freshened up my hair and shaved my legs.
Unfortunately, that meant blow-drying my hair, which was one of my least favorite things to do. It always took me forever and I found it tedious.
It took me ten minutes to get it somewhat under control, so I just crossed my fingers and hoped that the dry air would work on it before Clint showed up.
After my shower, I tried on three pairs of jeans and five shirts, before giving up and going with my first choice, tossing the others into my overnight bag. I grabbed toothpaste and toothbrush and everything else that I thought that I might need if I ended up staying the weekend. I didn't want to end up looking like I'd brought a suitcase to move in with, so I tossed some of the shirts and jeans back on the bed.
Then I realized that I didn't want Clint to see my messy bed if he came in to get a drink or something, so I quickly cleaned my bedroom.
Then I cleaned the kitchen, and the living room, and the bathroom.
Fortunately, my apartment was small and I wasn't incredibly messy, but by the end of the week it usually had at least a little that needed to be tidied away.
It took me a record amount of time to clean the apartment. I should go on dates more often.
Always amazing how much you can get done when you're not dawdling.
Unfortunately, my speedy shower and cleaning left me with more time to kill.
I put on my makeup in a leisurely fashion, and by 5:45 I was checking the time on my phone every minute or so. It felt like I'd been waiting forever.
To keep myself busy, I started reading a book, my tattered old copy of some fun chick lit I'd read last summer. I still checked my phone every minute or less, though, and it was hard to stay engaged.
After seven checks of my phone, I gave up, kept it out, tossed the book onto the end table, and stretched out on the couch to play Angry Birds.
I got through a few levels and realized that 6pm had come and gone, and Clint was four minutes late.
This waiting was killing me. I resolved not to check the time.
Focus on the silly game, I told myself.
I made myself get through another chunk before I checked my phone. 6:18. That's not a little late, that's just plain late.
I called him, but there was no answer. Shot off a "Where are you?" text.
My heart started to beat a little faster. Did he decide that he didn't want to come after all? Had he just gotten wrapped up in ranch work? Was he in some sort of terrible accident?