MAGPIE Read Free

interests as I will share hers. Looking for a relationship where we both make each other better versions of ourselves.
    Intrigued, I leaned back in my chair and glanced at the few pictures of “setpnt58.” He had nice eyes, great legs (guys always seemed to include close-ups in shorts if they had nice legs) and a genuine smile. I liked setpnt58.
    Tony saw what was happening, “Mags, come on. It’s never going to happen. You’re going to get hurt.” He’d become the brother I never had, overly protective and doting.
    “I’ll just read his note and respond politely with a ‘No, thank you.’” Before I finished my sentence, I opened setpnt58’s message,
    Dear MGroadie,
    We live approximately sixteen-hundred miles apart. It’s ridiculous to think that anything would come of us. But I had to write and tell you how beautiful your eyes are. I wish you all the best in your search for Mr. Right. BTW, what does MGroadie mean?
    I thanked Tony for his guidance, but explained that I’d take it from there. He huffed out of my office, clearly irritated. Ignoring his silent outburst, I settled into my chair and began drafting a response in my head. What could I say to a man who lived sixteen-hundred miles away?
    Dear setpnt58,
    You are kind, thank you. Yes, it seems sixteen-hundred miles is too much to overcome. I, too, wish you well on your search. Re: my profile name—the “MG” are my initials, and “roadie” is a reference to my addiction to road trips. Never saw the other meaning until someone asked if I was really grody…May I ask about your profile name?
    Leaving the site open, I switched to Outlook. Damn, one hundred and twelve new emails and I hadn’t opened one.
    I didn’t leave the office until seven o’clock. I spent a good deal of time deflecting pranks and avoiding conversations about who did what to whom and how terribly funny it was. My stealthy avoidance drained every last ounce of cerebral muscle, forcing me to shut my door at three o’clock to get a few things done. I made a mental note to work from home on the first of April next year.
    It was raining and dark when I got into my car, Jack’s ratty 2001 hunter green Toyota 4Runner; a relic I refused to sell or worse, drop off at a bleak junkyard. After starting it, I patted its dash, a practice I’d picked up from Jack. I wanted the jalopy to last forever, filling the void.
    Once, driving to Boulder to visit a friend, it died. I managed to steer it onto the shoulder as it chugged to a slow, pitiful stop. I felt almost breathless as it came to a standstill, as if something inside me had ground to a halt, too. Not wanting to experience that again, I had my temperamental sidekick overhauled at a neighborhood shop. Watching the guys work on it brought about an almost maternal sense. It needed a name , I thought. Thereafter, my mechanical companion was known as “Beater” because, well, he was one.
    Turning out of the parking lot, my stomach growled and I realized how famished I was. Thanks to my co-worker Sarah, who Saran-wrapped the refrigerator closed, I hadn’t eaten lunch that day. I heard only playful guffaws over the April Fools’ stunt while I moped about, missing my heat-and-serve low cal slop. I opted to stop by a local joint that served pretty good noodle dishes. My phone buzzed with a text while waiting for my food,
    Today, 7:32 PM
    TOM: Horny yet?
    MAGS: I can’t do this anymore
    TOM: What?
    MAGS: This horny stuff
    TOM: Come on, having some fun is all
    MAGS: It’s not fun, more like childish - Let’s just say we had a good run and call it quits ok?
    TOM: Serious?
    MAGS: Ya
    Tom didn’t respond. Thank God. Easiest break-up ever.
    The disinterested and freakishly pierced youth at the counter called my name and handed me my food. “Thanks,” I responded automatically, to no one in particular and walked out the door.
    The food smelled wonderful, and I couldn’t wait to get home. One more stop for a half bottle of Prosecco, and I’d