Conversations with PAST PERFECT almost always turn to things that happened in high school — things like baseball, football, and basketball. He seems to feel that because we sat together in biology class all those many years ago, he and I will reminisce with equal enthusiasm about twenty-yard end runs. His devotion to high school athletics extends beyond having married (and divorced) the captain of the 1964 cheerleading squad. He goes to all the school games, and in 2004 he made a six figure contribution to the new stadium.

When PAST PERFECT called to suggest a hike on nearby Snowshoe Mountain, I anticipated a challenging afternoon. I’d listened for months to details of his exercise routine, which seemed to consist of lifting weights, playing touch football with his sons and grandsons, and running three times a week. I was eager to suit up for a few hours of wandering up and down mountain pathways. Somewhere between the second and third mile markers PAST PERFECT began inventing pebbles in his shoe, untied shoelaces, and leg cramps. By mile marker four he had seated himself on a rock and seemed unable to continue our trail walk. I was concerned because he seemed to be short of breath, but he waved it off as a heel spur. I reached into my backpack to get him a power bar and a Gatorade, then trudged through the trees, out to the road, and down the mountain to the parking lot. I drove the car to a roadside shelter, where he had managed to make his way.

Later that evening he sent me a quick whatsapp message saying he was resting, though he downplayed the episode. A week later, when I still hadn’t heard from him on whatsapp, I started to feel uneasy. When I didn’t hear from PAST PERFECT for two weeks I thought nothing of it. We are both busy people, and our relationship was never an everyday thing. After three weeks I began to be concerned, and when it was almost a month I gave up on email and phoned a mutual friend. Whatsapp might have been faster, but I didn’t want to seem pushy. operation “He had a heart attack,” said Barney. “Is he –?” “He had a triple bypass and he’s okay now.” “Omigosh. Is he in the hospital? I want to visit him.” There is silence. “Is there – some reason I shouldn’t go to see him?” More silence. “I wouldn’t go there,” Barney says. “Cheryl would think it was – odd.” “Cheryl?” Silence. “THAT Cheryl?” “Yeah. That Cheryl.” I remember Cheryl once bragging on whatsapp about her days as Head Majorette, even sharing old photos with a group of us. Cheryl is okay. At least she was, back in the day when she was Head Majorette. Apparently, Cheryl and PAST PERFECT are an item. Embarrassing for me, but definitely not heartbreaking. PAST PERFECT has always been a fallback position, a chance to eat well in good restaurants, a chance to share laughs about the crazy stuff people do when they are seventeen.

There are a lot of senior widows and divorcees out there looking for good looking, well-heeled senior men like PAST PERFECT. I can’t really blame him for keeping more than one woman on the string, and I’m really glad he’s going to be okay after his heart attack scare. He even sent a whatsapp update to his friends assuring them he was “stronger than ever.” Thank goodness I didn’t make the proffered Las Vegas trip with him, though. Cheryl would REALLY think THAT was odd. In hindsight, I’m amused at how often whatsapp conversations reveal the truths we don’t say face-to-face. Cheryl probably knows more than I do just by scrolling through his whatsapp chats. As for me, I’ll keep my dignity intact, my circle wide, and my notifications on silent. Sometimes no whatsapp ping is the clearest message of all.