"So... you got a new feller yet?"
My grandpa's gruff voice came down the telephone line. He was only trying to make conversation... he never does know quite what to say to me. He always tries, though. Always.
"Nope," I answer neutrally.
"Well... why in the Hell not?" Grandfatherly bafflement. Why wouldn't anyone want his granddaughter?
I was silent for a few minutes. How to explain to an ex-Marine, a man with a shell thick around him, a man who exclusively reads Louis L'Amour, how I was feeling? He wouldn't try to understand; he would just chuckle at me and pass me off as his odd little duck, always with an imagination bigger than her eyes.
"Because, Grandpa," I explained patiently, "I don't want one."
"Awww..." He chuckled, completely disbelieving.
"I don't," I reiterated, though a torrent of indignance ruptured in me.
"Sure," he said, and I could just picture him on the other end of the line, shaking his shaggy white head and with his mischievous blue eyes twinkling. "What'samatter, Toothpick? Boys still being boys?"
"I hate boys," I admitted, and he laughed again. Of course he knew he wasn't included in that declaration.
"But really, Grandpa, I don't want another one. Not for a long time. I'm tired of them."
"What about that feller in Florida?" Amusement.
"Who? Oh, him... there was never really anything going on. And he's across the country."
"Susan told me there's been one calling you from Texas." Susan is his daughter. My mother.
"Yup." Back to the neutral tone. Discussing my long-distance friendships is never easy, and I dislike the incredulous tone that seeps into even the most well-meaning of conversations.
There was a bit of a silence-- not uncomfortable, but as if my grandfather was gathering his thoughts to say something out of character. He's getting older and more ornery as the days pass, but he doesn't tease as much as he used to. I don't have to be afraid of him rubbing his stubble against my cheek and burning my skin when he hugs me, or pinching me on the back of the leg as I pass him sitting in his chair... and I miss that. Now he and I war with words, teasing one another, calling each other Toothpick and Stubby, Cherry-Top and Old Gimpy.
But every so often he lets himself soften, as if remembering he isn't in the service any more, as if remembering he truly does love us... as if remembering that he isn't going to live forever.
"Who needs those fellers. You'll find you a nice one soon enough."
I felt my eyes fill with tears.
"Thanks." My voice was a bit thick. "I'll go get Mom for you, okay?"
"Love ya, Toothpick."
"Love you, too."