In November, if you don’t look outside for ten minutes the weather will have likely changed. It’s funny. It’s also true. It also gets dark before six.
When he stepped out, he stepped out with appropriate footwear, an appropriate jacket, and his phone in his hand. The first snowflake fell on the touchscreen. He wiped it away. She had sent him a new text. He jumped down the front steps, turned down the street, stopped for a second to check the bus times at the bus stop outside his duplex apartment, then kept walking towards school. Walking briskly and with his phone still in his hand, he looked up, straight into the falling snowflakes. They were coming down hard. They were coming down in the big wet flakes that always fall in early November.
With his phone still in hand, he turned down another street. Walking briskly, he checked that he had his keys in his pocket. He had left his laptop charger in his office. His laptop had died minutes after he had got home. He checked his phone, checked the message from her. His last message had read, “I am a fan of hiding private relationships to the public.”
"Fantastic. I’m a huge fan of this whole situation, you should know that. I think you’re pretty awesome."
He looked at the message until his hands got cold. He looked at the message for a few seconds longer, grew concerned about xerodermia, and put his hands in his pockets. A few seconds later he withdrew his hands from his pocket to press the pedestrian crossing button. He took his phone out of his pocket while he waited for the light to change.
"… I can’t tell if you’re employing sarcasm." Send.
Crosswalk lights never stay lit for long enough. He was already cold, so he didn’t need another reason to walk-run across the crosswalk. Up the steps to his building, he reached for the door, flew inside, let out a sigh. He called the elevator just for the one already on the ground floor to open its doors. Once on the floor, he knew that the charger could only be in one of two places: the desk in 1902? Not there. The desk drawer in 1912? Disco. He called the elevator just for the one that brought him up to the nineteenth floor to open its doors.
Two new messages: “I’m 200% serious. 500%.” She had needed a pause. “10000000% serious.”
"You know, using imaginary percentages doesn’t help to prove your honesty," he typed. On the ground floor again, he paused to brace the November world outside.
New message: “I don’t even understand how you could doubt how serious I am. How is that even possible. You are sexy and intellectual and talented and just terrific in general. How could I NOT be serious?”
He knew this to be a fault. He was fairly sure that his skepticism was honest. He was fairly sure that he wasn’t fishing for that kind of blatant ego boost.
"There’s the blatant ego boost that I was looking for," he typed. He looked at the message. "I’m quite into you as well."
He sighed and pushed the door open. The snow had stopped and the wind had picked up. He flipped up the collar on his peacoat and strode home.