It was bound to happen, just a matter of time really, when I sent a raunchy story to the wrong email address. My dirty tale was delivered to the inbox of Rat, this guy I know.

Immediately Rat wrote back. He typed me about five messages in quick succession. I stared at the monitor and wondered what to do with this commotion I’d stirred up. From his tone it seemed Rat was a happy man. He sounded like he thought he had met his soul mate. Not only didn’t he know the story was not meant for him, he also didn’t know it was just a story, unadulterated fiction.

Ever since then, Rat phones and sends me electronic messages, often at four o’clock in the morning. He pleads with me to contact him. I’ll probably never call him. I’ll certainly never tell him I did a Cyrano de Bergerac to myself.

Rat thinks I’m the coolest chick who ever lived. I prefer to leave with him with that impression.