For one irrational moment, my stomach clenched on that burrito as I whipped my head to the window, half expecting Black to be standing outside on the lawn. Instead, as I pulled the gauzy white curtains back, I saw the tail end of the sun’s descent onto the horizon. Or, in my case, onto the roof of Hattie Carmichael’s Cadillac in the driveway next door. But the glow of bright oranges and reds as the last rays of daylight fought through the thick Indian summer smog was brilliant. Like a surreal oil painting…or some kid’s Creamsicle smearing across the sky.

Wow, I responded

Beautiful, huh?

Very.

Amazing how something as toxic as our smog layer can create a picture so gorgeous. There was a pause before more words appeared on my screen. That’s how you are.

Hmmm…had he just called me toxic?

Me?

You’re the brilliant sunset ending my smog-shitty day with a smile.

I felt a big goofy grin take over my face.

Thanks.

’Night, Bender. Be good.

’Night, Man in Black.

Then the little “online now” icon next to his name disappeared.

I looked at the little blinking cursor, the quiet screen bringing me back to reality.

Sad that the most intimate relationship I had was with a computer screen. I know in reality there was some guy on the other end, but, like I said, he probably pumped gas for a living and lived in his mother’s basement.

Man in Black was a fantasy, nothing more. I knew that the image in my head was nothing like the real guy would be. In my mind he was six feet tall, dark hair, even darker eyes. A sort of crooked, imperfect, but oh-so-sexy smile, kind of like Elvis, lifting one side of his lip at a time. Maybe a scar. Something he’d gotten at his very dangerous and mysterious job.

I sighed, clicking shut the screen. Until tomorrow, fantasy man…

Instead, I turned on the TV, threw in an old Seinfeld DVD, and let the canned laughter fill the silence as I finished my column.