The Digits

It's been a long time since I got a girl's number. I mean good and got her number. I've friended on Facebook, sent some e-mails, and banged out a couple DMs in a hundred and forty characters or less, but I miss the lost art of getting the digits. She holds your hand, pulls the cap off with her teeth and presses ink into your palm. That's a number. Even a cocktail napkin has its charm. You can hold it up, point to it, and keep it in a shoebox later. No one ever said, "Do you like apples? She friended me on Facebook. How do you like them apples?"

A secret ten-digit code that gives you direct, unfettered, 24-hour access someone, that's a phone number. I trust you with this information. I'm letting you into my little world. I've reviewed your application and would like to invite you in for a second interview. That's a phone number.

There's no doubt in my mind that this fantasy is the result of movies and TV, but I don't care. It's wonderful. After getting my first digits in middle school, I didn't wash my hand for a week. I retraced the number with a pen so it'd stay longer.

Even before the date starts, we're already beaming with mutual flattery. I asked and you said yes. I'm convinced that half the fun of dating are moments like this. These Tic Tacs of joy exist exclusively for us. Next time you meet someone, don't tell them how to contact you on Facebook and don't give them your business card. Ask to borrow their pen, grab their hand, and lay your digits on them.

I bet they call.  

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