He Doesn't Write, He Doesn't Call

For months, I thought we had a real relationship. I mean, I didn't see it coming, but when I got the first e-mail, I confess I couldn't believe it.

At the beginning, the e-mails were general, wanting to be my friend, never asking anything of me. I replied in kind. I wanted to be his friend, too. I never expected anything but being a pen pal, but that was good enough for me.

Then he called. Once, twice in a month. I could hardly answer his questions. His voice was so deep, so rich. I fell in love. I confess, I fell in love with a voice. Sometimes it was raspy. I worried he had a cold. Sometimes it was strong and vibrant. The calls became more frequent, as did the e-mails. Within half a year, we were in constant contact, exchanging e-mails daily. I couldn't call him, so I had to wait for his incoming call. I never thought about why he didn't give me a number.

My friends said I was nuts. He was probably married and trolling for a sucker. I knew different. He wasn't trolling for a sucker. He was interested in me, and only in me. He never asked for much money. Just a few dollars here and there. No asking for access to my bank accounts. No asking for large sums. Just a few dollars. I could afford a few dollars, so I sent him the money.

Then, one day the calls and e-mails stopped. My in-box was empty. My phone was silent. Where had he gone? Were my skeptical friends right after all? Did he have someone else? Someone younger? Richer? I wept, but never let my friends know how devastated I felt. I had pinned my hopes and dreams on a voice at the end of a long phone line, warm words in e-mails. And now, thundering silence, except for my sobs. I feel dirty, used, used up.

Much as I hate to admit it. I've been dumped. Worse yet, Bill Clinton, the Big Dog, dumped me. Again. I guess he was only after my money, one $3.00 donation at a time.