Interim: Phone Lines
I am strangling the phone. Holding it tightly, each of my fingers begin to take on a blueish red hue with the sheer weight of my desire. I am squeezing it like an orange, the pulp dripping onto my sleeve.
I WANT HIM TO CALL ME! CALL ME, DAMMNIT!
The phone is getting hot, and I am boring gun wounds into the center. It is black—abyss pitch decay— and, rapid like vomit, my desperation gives way to sheer anger. Willing, with all the power a fantastical imagination can muster, for this device that clings to my fingers and melts my wrists to ring, even just once. Plundering a thousand villages with pitchforks and shovels would not suffice to redirect the depth at which my terror has festered—a dog biting its owners knee and never letting go as the blood drips down onto the tiles of the bathroom.
Love is a funny, precarious thing. Wounds visible on the body; bondage of a thousand forget-me-nots.
But why, WHY won’t he call me????? Why doesn’t he pick up the goddamn phone??
The cellular device of my grievances is delicately placed on the hearth, fresh air out the back door as the screen creaks closed. FLICK: lighter ignites the white cylindrical bandage of my wounds. Knees buckle, body crumples on the concrete porch. Piercing cold shoots up toes and underneath wool socks— as if the ground knows my pain and whispers apologies. Unfortunately, they only make it worse. Now, I am angry and sad and really, really, terribly, cold.
Eyes shut, visions appear.
Slim, dark wash jeans, the left side pocket is lodged with the small red notebook and shaved pencil that is always there, without question. They fit oddly, in a perfect way, as they rest for the evening on top of brown leather boots caked with salt from the street outside; bunched at the knees, movement, and cinched with a two fingers width belt tied gingerly around protruding hips. The eyes of his shirt poke through— dirt stained yellow tee, tucked. Roadtrip of ‘96 sweatshirt, smelling of cigarette smoke and musky cologne (Old Spice after shave) rests atop. Cocked smile, perfectly placed on the left side of his mouth, creating ripples of waves on a rosy cheek. Hair—swept from wind and misery— and eyes— still bright even as the cavern digs deeper into the dirt— each dusty brown and enamored with the rusted fingertips that sweep by every once in a while, concertos of long gone beauty and knees grazed.
Mediator of my little universe, weathered and wise.
Well, not so wise as to ring me in my hour of dark desire, but the sentiment remains.
Wise in his own right, in his own mind. A million things are shooting around like stars at any given time, though I am only lucky once to get to hear a succinctly prescribed anecdote, carefully delivered in a satin bow. Collected from the thousands: polished, and handed with intention rather than truth.
I suppose I can just walk down and ask him to call me. To please, and thank you, crawl in under the red covers and hold the warmth in his mouth. Amend his apology, beat out the cold with a drumstick, and whisper bristling fortunes in my ear. He is not far— if I yelled loud enough there is a chance he is outside and would tilt one ear, leaning on a fence post,to hear me. But I am too tired and my voice is hoarse. My feet are glued to where I am, which is not where he is, but a few streets up. I can’t even make it all the way down the gravel, and truthfully I don’t want to. I am confined by my own barriers to writhe and decay alone, keeping the wounds and visible blood at bay. The blue fingers belong only to me.
Maybe it is I who speaks with intention and not with truth. Maybe that is why I want him to call me, but can’t pick up the phone and dial the already memorized number myself.
I want the phone to ring, and to hear a whiskered, raspy voice croon over telephone lines. To hear static punchlines with yellow chuckles and owl calls of remorse.
I’ll click the call and end it. Soon, the front door will open. An obliged face would appear and together in untruths, night will fall and he would be beside me. Truth will wake with the dawn. For tonight, bitten fingernails and boney backs will be all we have.
And I would never wish for the phone to ring again.