Can You Hear Me Now
"She calls tech support for her internet problem. He's the Somali man on the other end of the line—patient, helpful, and clearly flirting. Three calls later, they finally meet in person. The connection is better than broadband."
"Have you tried turning it off and on again?"
"That's the first thing I tried." I stare at my dead router. "I'm not completely incompetent."
"I never said you were." His voice is warm through the phone. Somali accent, definitely. "Let's try something else."
His name is Hassan.
He walks me through troubleshooting for forty-five minutes. By the end, my internet is working and I've learned more about him than I have about some friends.
"If you have any more problems," he says, "don't hesitate to call."
"Will I get you again?"
"Ask for me by name." A pause. "If you want."
I want.
I call back a week later.
Different problem—or maybe the same problem that miraculously reappeared. Hard to say.
"Hassan again?" he says when he picks up. "Lucky me."
"My router is being difficult."
"Your router seems to have regular problems."
"It's an old router."
"Mmhmm." I can hear him smiling. "Well, let's see what we can do."
By the third call, we're barely pretending.
"Your internet is working fine," he says.
"How do you know?"
"Because you're streaming music while we talk. I can hear it in the background."
Caught.
"Maybe I just wanted to talk."
"Maybe I wanted you to call." His voice drops. "Maybe I've been hoping you would."
"This is against the rules," he says.
"What rules?"
"Work rules. Dating customers." He sighs. "But I keep hoping for your number on my screen."
"Then ask me out."
"On a tech support call?"
"Unless you want me to keep inventing router problems."
He laughs. "There's a coffee shop near our call center. Can you meet me Saturday?"
Saturday comes.
He's taller than his voice suggested. More handsome. Real in a way that phone calls never captured.
"Your internet is working?" he asks.
"Perfectly."
"Then I did my job." He grins. "Now let me do something else."
Coffee becomes dinner.
Dinner becomes his flat.
"I've been imagining this—" he says against my neck. "Every call. Imagining what you looked like."
"And?"
"Better than I imagined."
He makes love to me like he troubleshoots—methodically, patiently, making sure everything works perfectly before moving on.
"Hassan—yes—"
"Connection established." He grins. "Strong signal."
"That's the worst joke—"
"You love it."
I do.
We date for a year.
He gets a better job—no more tech support. But I still tease him about it.
"Remember when you fixed my router?"
"Remember when you pretended it was broken?" He pulls me close. "Best troubleshooting call of my life."
"Best customer service I ever received."
We laugh.
And our connection stays strong.
Forever.