We send over a banger meme like it’s nothing. Spongebob dried out with makeup and something about depression. It’s a sure bet. The little bubble with the “...” flashes and disappears.
Holy shit. A haha guy. We’ve got a haha guy here. We’ve only been with lol guys. Well, there was that one haha guy in high school. The writer who didn’t write. He said something about hating lol and we nodded and said fa sho and he said what and made a face and we stuck to mostly texting.
Haha guy sends back a decent meme. It’s older, but it tracks. Sad enough, funny enough. He’s funny enough. Not brilliant. But he’s a haha guy, we can cut him some slack. Plus, he’s picking up on every little packet of information we’re sending. He’s definitely into us. Better not fuck this up.
Maybe in a few months, we’ll find out he’s an ily guy, too. He’ll get it from us. We’ll send it first and watch the little bubble with the dots flash and fade, flash and fade and we’ll wonder what the hell were we thinking and if we’d ever know what it would be like to love again and then a quick pop and,
We’ll go shorthand with it. Casual. Cool. Just in love. No big deal. One of our kids will have this cute way of saying it. “Lafoo,” back to us. We’ll start our own language.
For years we’ll go on like this until we stop speaking in ways only we can understand and we think the end will look like screaming and crying and throwing clothes over balconies, but it’s mostly just weekend schedules and who gets the dog, which will obviously be him, they go on runs together for god’s sake, and it’s quiet and it looks like: