CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE: SOME OLD FLAMES STILL SPARK A SLOW BURN

A former flame called me the other day.

Based upon the above description, you may surmise the relationship did not end well, although it did most assuredly end. Sort of. When Paul called the other day, he said the three words every woman who's ever been publicly humiliated by a two-timing snake disguised as a hominid longs to hear: "I miss you."

I was kind of surprised to hear from him, considering the last time we spoke I suggested he perform an anatomically impossible sexual act, but we journalists admire persistence, so I have to give him credit for that much.

I didn't talk to him long. Actually, I didn't talk to him at all, except to say "hello" when I answered the phone. I recognized his voice and hung up on him.

I'm not bitter; nope, not me. It's sheer coincidence that a little male doll that looks just like him is impaled on several hat pins in my dresser drawer.

Paul has called me several times since he dumped me. Incidentally, that was in 1989.

Every time he calls, he tells me he misses me. I think we've had two actual conversations, one about why he left, and the second about why he wanted to get back together. First he needed space, and then he needed me, but with lots of space and very few strings.

Every now and then, I have this dream we're on a talk show together and the host, who has an Australian accent, is going on and on about "couples tied by bonds that time and distance can't break."

In a word, yuk.

There was a time when Paul's calls ate little holes in my heart. Then I moved on and was able to take a certain perverse pride that the guy who had dumped me was on his knees, begging me to take him back.

But I'm older now, and a little more reflective, and after this last call, I can't help but wonder what he wanted, and why he keeps calling. It's like probing a sore tooth to see if it still hurts. Sometimes even ghost pains are gratifying.

I'm also a little more irritable (remember, I'm older now) and I can't help wondering why he doesn't just get on with his life. Or maybe he is, but he needs to keep checking back to see if I'm getting on with mine.

And every time he calls, I feel obliged to go over the list of Very Important Relationships in my life and why they didn't work, and whose fault it was. It's not a pastime I recommend.

It's a lot more fun to review my list of Dates From Hell, like the time a nice guy in a very nice gray suit took me to dinner and was arrested (in the restaurant, of course) on an outstanding warrant for unpaid traffic tickets. Or the recently divorced man who kept asking me if I wanted to see his wedding album, which he just happened to have in his briefcase. Or the guy who wanted to bring his mother along. Or the guy with the three earrings who asked me how I felt about body-piercing.

More than anything, I think, Paul's calls annoy me because the emotions they stir up mean he still has some measure of control over me, however small. And that's my fault.

Somewhere along the line, you're supposed to realize that you're not going be a Judith Krantz heroine when you grow up, and Harrison Ford (or Keanu Reeves; I'm flexible) is not going to run off to the south of France with you. You also realize that everyone you know is always going to have a cousin or nephew or friend from out of town who's just DYING to meet you.

And if you're lucky, you realize anything's possible, like the farmer who advertised for a combine driver and met the love of his life.

Ain't love grand? I think so.

~Peggy O'Farrell is a staff writer for the southeast Missourian