Dirk stares the offline message from Caleb he received while sleeping:

“IM me when you get a chance, man. Today is my first day off after 17 in a row. I’m enjoying a few days of R&R back home and would love to get together.”

Would love to get together.

Dirk ponders the meaning of the words. Would love to get together and grab a bite to eat and catch up up on what’s happening in our lives? Or would love to get together and shove my cock down your throat, using my hand on the back of your head to set the rhythym? It’s hard to know from the brevity of the message. And from the writer’s incredibly spotty track record in regards to actually “getting together.” On the times he has mentioned doing so, the spots Caleb has suggested have seemed rather lacking to Dirk: the household detergent aisle at the local Super K at midnight; a truck stop off the interstate; the parking lot of a now defunct factory; behind a grain elevator. And while it is obvious that only a person with no pride would agree to any of those suggestions, Dirk has — on more than one occasion. Each time, Caleb has backed out at the last minute.

And, despite the previous disappointments, Dirk sends a response.

“Hey, Caleb! I’ll be out doing some last minute Christmas shopping tomorrow morning if you’d be interested in meeting up for some breakfast. Give me a call or shoot me an e-mail and let me know.”

He presses send. And immediately regrets it.

The message sounded desperate, clingy, too chummy — something. He’s not sure what, but it sounded wrong. Maybe it was the exclamation mark. It’s so hard to know if the casual off-handedness he hoped for was accurately conveyed in the IM. He’s sure it’s not.

Dirk hates looking like the desperate older man. Actually, Dirk just hates looking desperate.

Dirk wishes he had never responded at all. Then he wishes he were thinner, younger, smarter, taller, more muscular, better looking — in that order.

An hour later, he receives a reply from Caleb.

“Sweetie, I’m already back home. I just got back a little while ago. I’ll give you a heads up the next time I am coming to town.”

Dirk reads the brief message over and over, unsure what he hopes to glean from it.

On the one hand, Dirk feels like a fool for even entertaining the notion a man like Caleb would ever be desperate enough to meet him. On the other hand, the use of “Sweetie” is even worse — it makes him feel like the butt of a joke, as does most any term of endearment.

He stares at the message for several minutes, not sure what he is feeling. And then, it hits him.

He’s disappointed.

Disappointed in a way more profound than he would have thought possible. Despite his best efforts to deny it, Dirk was looking forward to finally meeting the man he’s gotten to know over the last year via IMs, e-mails, and phone conversations. The man who has dedicated his life to healing others. The man who volunteers to help the terminally ill. The man who loves the same silly things Dirk does.

Dirk looks at the keyboard and types a message, then deletes it. Then types another. And deletes it as well.

What’s the point? What is there to say?

Right now, nothing.

But not because he’s angry at Caleb — because he’s angry at himself.