Vignettes Part Two

The Inbox page flashes open and there, sitting at the top of the list, an email that is one year overdue. I do a double take. Is it an impersonal, chain email or is it a specially-for-your-eyes-only email? There's only one way to find out.
It doesn't disappoint. The first line sparks the same subtle innuendos that have been sorely missed: "Hello Miss XXX XXXXX...or has some lucky man changed that...". But the best part is the declaration: I'm coming. All the way from London.
Images, flashing like jump cuts in a film, appear in my head: T* in a basketball-type outfit walking, no, sauntering, away from Venice Beach. A dog-eared book in his hand. On a cool Los Angeles summer's day. Just a glimpse before I darted into the cafe to get a bottle of water.
Fade to black. What shall I wear? Do I need to lose some inches around the waist? I need a manicure. A spruced-up hairdo. Oh, I'm being silly.

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I am officially exhausted. My head is floating, my shoulders are aching, my stomach's growling. Switch off the computer. Have just about had it with 12 hours straight of banging away on the keyboard to type out the 5,000-word essay.
Drag my heavy feet towards the bed. Stop. Look at the mirror. Look closer. God, I look like crap. A pimple is erupting on the left cheek. Greenish, dark circles glare under the eyes. The skin is pale and lifeless. How can I look like this when T comes?
Need to, as the cosmetics spin doctors like to say, rejuvenate myself. First, the bed.

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Told best friend, S, of T's impending visit. "I've to approve of him first. If he's a bastard, don't waste your time." Wait, he's a friend. Did you think he's a suitor? "He may very well be."

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A phone text message from T. Unexpected yet expected. When can I call you? (time difference, how thoughtful). You can call me anytime from now. I've just knocked off from work.
An hour later: my phone, which has been quiet, tucked in my hand rings to the tone of Van Morrison's Brown Eyed Girl. Answers it in my best casual, friendly voice. The usual niceties get disrupted over the Internet phone service. Hold on, I'll call you from the land line, he promises. Five heartbearts and the phone rings again. Crisp and clear, his British accent, despite the chug-a-chug of my train ride home.
How long is he going to stay. Which hotel does he plan on. He has some friends here. "I haven't called them. I called you first". Oh, boy. What else can I say, based on a series of half-forgotten emails.
At the cafe (which really looked more like a shack), I ordered a bottle of water. The dude ducked behind the counter, slid open the fridge and grabbed an Evian, and placed it on the counter, as I picked out the loose change from my purse. Paid what was due, lifted the Evian and turned towards the door. And there he was, standing tall. "This may sound terribly like a pick-up line but you really do look like a friend of mine from back home". British, what a surprise. I responded, I'm here on a business trip. Oh, you've been here for a while to start a clothing line. Wait, my tour bus is honking. Yes, you want my card? Okay, here you go.
I'm tripping over my words, getting ahead of myself. Be yourself, be yourself! Why do I have to behave like such a fumbling idiot around men I fancy? I want to proverbially kick myself.

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*Funny but true, T is a different individual from the one mentioned in the previous post. And much younger.