“You said you’re a night owl. Is that a code word for insomniac?”

“Maybe. Probably. I’ve never slept very much. Even as a kid.”

“So, you spend a lot of the night awake?”

“Most nights. Yeah.”

“What’s your trick for getting through it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, usually I’m a champion sleeper. Like, asleep in under thirty seconds and don’t move until my alarm goes off nine hours later. But lately . . . I guess I’m just wondering if you have any tricks for passing the time at night.”

“Sure.” I think for a second and then message again. “Let’s see . . . there’s the usual—reading, meditating, listening to podcasts. Those are if you’re trying to coax yourself into sleep. But if you’re at the point where you’ve completely given up on sleep . . . well, there’s pedicures, dying your hair another color, trashy television, working out, chatting with some random dude over voice message . . .”

“Random dude, you say? I’d be offended if you hadn’t just given me another hint. This conclusively means that you’re not Marta, my tailor, or Sarah from the wine shop because I’m omnipresent enough in their lives for them to never just refer to me as a ‘random dude’.”

I’m torn between laughing and face-palming. Of course he’s on familiar terms with a tailor and wine-shop lady. These are two types of establishment I’ve literally never set foot in once in my life. I’ve got the light beer in the fridge and the tattered hemlines to prove it. For the first time in this conversation, I really, truly, try to picture him in this exact second. I’ve been in his apartment a few times and the details come back to me with alarming clarity. I hadn’t realized I’d been paying such close attention. But I can say with certainty that he’s either lounging on that fancy gray couch in his living room or on his bed that’s so high most people would need a step stool and carabiners just to hoist themselves onto it. His life is basically sponsored by Pottery Barn.

He wears three-piece suits for meetings with clients.

He drinks wine electively.

Once again my crush on this guy utterly baffles me. He couldn’t be further from my usual type.

And I’m sure I’m a million miles away from his, but, as it’s the witching hour and the only thing he needs to know about me is what my voice sounds like, does that really matter?

“How do you know you’re the random dude I was referring to?”

“Ha. Are you having more than one late-night voice message conversation right now?”

“Maybe. I could be.”

“You’re two-timing me already? Dang. And here I thought we had the juice to go the distance.”