"Dear you. I know it's been awhile since we last talked. I'm sorry girl. Coffee, to make it up to you? The usual spot, the usual time. Love, me."
On its fifth replay, she finds the message no less confusing than the first. In fact, with each looped playback she's washed further from the shores of sanity - first through last, some new digitized detail emerging from the embers of her memory. His affectionate inflections, the familiarity of his colloquialisms. By the seventh time through, she stalls repeatedly on the message's end: did that 'love' carry the same weight it once did, or is she imagining things that aren't there?
She could just pretend to have never gotten the message. Reject his peace offering in silence and get out of whatever he has planned by way of 'making it up to her'. There's an charming unfussiness to dodging people, and ignorance; he can't hold her responsible, if she doesn't know. But even as she ponders the option, she knows it isn't one. While he's moved on to his happily ever after *with his little Energizer Slutbunny * she's no further away from him than she's ever been. Still stuck evaluating the importance of his proposed meeting place, and time: regretful amusement, or incisive undertone? How much was he trying to say?
It was my ex. My serious serious ex.