She once told him, his caped crusader as she was at the time of telling, that every time she changed lovers, she changed phone numbers. She’d learnt to her cost that her love was so overwhelming, that her being was so astonishing, that her way of touching the soul of another was so absolutely dumbfounding, that no man she met or ever knew – in almost any way at all – ever forgot the person she was.
Thus it was, they never misplaced her phone number either.
Which, equally, led her to realise – in the inevitable madcap pursuit of a now-ended once upon a time – every old lover meant a discarding of every old phone number.
This also meant, of course, that the story once told – in the main, to lover of current practice – was never to be forgotten, nor unlearned. And once the recovery process in question, long and arduous (and why not? Better to have loved in such amazing circumstances than never to have experienced them at all …), found itself properly begun, no way would respectful ex-lover ever find it in themselves to make the call that a loving situation might require. What was the point, after all, of phoning a number which years down the line only a stranger would end up answering?
That was just dumb. Actually, very dumb.
As dumb as could be – and not dumb in the sense of geekily, crazily, warmly dumb either.