Out of 23 1/2 hours that Chris could have called, he managed to hit dead center of my 20 minute commute to work. I was at the interchange of two freeways, in the fast lane, with two cop cars traveling along with me. No talking on cell phones while driving and no place to get off.
I carried my phone all day in the hope that he'd get another chance to call, but I guess not. (G-d, I hope he doesn't think I screwed up.)
I'm in a major funk now. I know he's doing well, but I sense an undercurrent of "What the hell did I get myself into?" in his letters. He's all the way across the country, with a bunch of guys he doesn't know. His friends don't know how to write letters. They are so use to cell phones, text and E-mail that to sit down and write a missive is beyond them. Quick bursts of writing on one point, send it off and wait for the instant response, then the next round.
Ah, well. Next Sunday I'm working Days and if he calls about the same time, I'll still be at work.
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