He pulled up the page. It was easy, and far too quick. He had it bookmarked.

“I have mail!” He cried. No one was home, so who cared? In fact he could get up and do the little dance he felt coming on – obey the adrenaline pumping through his veins – but he didn’t. That would’ve been too embarrassing.

Gosh, why did she do this to him? Every time he clicked that inbox button of his, he hoped and prayed there’d be one of her signature hand-crafted, ridiculously long messages waiting for him. He loved that. It was easy to tell she put much time into them. They were perfectly worded and said everything, but somehow left him with a thirst for more.

“Yes!” There it was, bolded, waiting for him to click, beckoning him thither to read.

He let the mouse linger on the link for longer than was necessary, heightening the suspense.

He clicked, and as the email appeared he took it line by line, trying to savor every word, coveting the euphoria that was her attention.

How he loved email.