I medicate myself with an Asahi

I sully my own reputation: I am a Madonna, not a whore. A virgin in love is not to be trifled with, no sir.

In the end, I deleted the hey and the emoji, opting instead for an old-fashioned smile emoticon. All lowercase, in a deceptive show of casualness. I sent it at the unthreatening hour of 11:02 the following morning.

The rest is history, as they say. My phone lights up with a new text, and my heart lights up, too, a fresh lime dropping into a cold bottle of beer, a bursting balloon, a cartoon lightbulb flicking on with sudden, radiant intensity. A giddiness I refuse to contain.

I reread our texts every night, starting from the very first. I memorize all our lines, plot them into a color-coordinated spreadsheet that maps the frequency, initiator, and average response time of our conversations. I study the data in order to control my basest impulses and tamp them down; I master the art of coyness and mystery. A minimalist approach, if you will. Because less is more, he must make more of an effort to stoke the fires of our dialogue, keep it alive. I delight in snipping short the threads of our conversations and affecting a tone of detached nonchalance, for him to slam the ball back into my court out of desperation. Gleefully, I take it as a token of his continued interest.