She liked when her phone rang, it meant he was calling. It was the clock striking twelve, the rooster’s crow, the morning alarm. She would mentally prepare for it, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes, taking a deep breath, checking her teeth. They were meaningless rituals, he couldn’t see her face, he couldn’t taste her breath, he couldn’t feel the heat from her skin, but she felt like he could. She always did.
He called her a lot. When he was bored, or excited, or lonely, he’d call her. He was like a puppy, almost. He would jump at the sound of her voice, he would come up with the most incredulous excuses to dial her number, press that final button as he might open a door before seeing a long lost relative, a long dead pet, an ancient mystery.
She didn’t mind that he called her so often. More often than not she would be entertaining some company or other when her phone would ring, but when she dismissed him, nonchalantly, coolly, simply, she would add as an afterthought;
“I’d imagine you’ll be leaving in an hour or so?” or
“Mom, they’re only staying until three, right?”
As if she were talking to her guests, but he would always still be on the line. He would wait till the hour was up, till three had come, to return the call as if it was the first time that day, and she would say “fancy meeting you here” as she did every time, and he would laugh and she would chuckle and they would talk.
They would talk of trivial things. Of TV shows and recent movies and gossip and clothes and boys (and girls) and sex and life and love and happiness and an anecdote or two. And all at once, as he told her some trivial story of seeing an old friend at the grocery store or how his shoe came untied so many times that day, she would gasp, like a balloon deflating, but reversed, turned on it’s head, flipped this way and that. He would smile secretly as she began to speak without warning, say something or other about her interruption, but allow it grudgingly, silently loving it, secretly loving it. Loving every second. He wouldn’t admit it if she asked him, he’d complain and complain, but she knew he loved it, and he knew she knew, and on it went like a playground discourse.
With an “ok, so” she would begin a convoluted tale, interrupting herself to mention how much she loved that skirt, how cute that guy is, how good her mom looked that day, how amazing her dog was, and he would impatiently tell her to continue, smiling still. She would tell him stories from a year ago that had just surfaced in the murky waters of her mind only to sink once again half way through, only to be pulled back up with umpteen details changed. He hated it. He loved it.
She would tell him happy stories that made him smile, and sad stories that made him cry, and funny stories that made him laugh till he cried, and all three so he laughed through his tears and she laughed at his laugh and they became entangled in their laughter, miles apart, a laugh king, a hysterical phone chord, a ball of smiles, big smiles. She loved his laugh.
Some days he didn’t call her, and she would wring her hands and stare at the phone and mutter under her breath and wonder what was taking him. She imagined some horrible monster stopping him from reaching his phone. A horrific train wreck, his outstretched hand about to press send. And at 11:59 the phone would ring and she would spring for it, violently, like a cornered kangaroo, a livid jack-in-the-box, a coiled snake. He’d say one word; “Gotcha”, And hang up.
Fuming, she would stay up all night. She would think of all the things she would yell at him tomorrow. She would tell her mom exactly what she thought of him, in exquisite detail. She stormed through her house like a woman possessed. She wrote angry e-mails, crushing the keyboard beneath her fingers. She would count all the things she would do to him to sleep, and woke up the next morning feeling exceedingly embarrassed. She would write an apology, and chastise herself for her rash behavior.
And he would call her up and say “it’s alright, don’t worry” and she would melt and reply “Worry? Psh, I was just apologizing to be nice” and he would keep smiling and say “oh, silly me” and they would talk as if nothing had happened and that was how it went. It was not often that they truly argued, but it happened every once in awhile, though those passed quickly enough and weren’t very interesting or important to begin with.
Wow