Landline

After K. M.

What wouldn't you give to go back to whenyou knew friends' phone numbers betterthan a lover's body? How you pray for the HeavyBreather to rise like steam from his grave, to takethe place of those spam calls. For kids to prank you,just as you did. Listen to how quiet your house is.Is your refrigerator running? Do you have Prince Albertin a can? Hello, is Master Bates there? Are there ghostsof laughter at your door? You had a friend from way backwhen you'd cradle the receiver's tusk that shonelike a moon in the dark kitchen. Who could put it down?You did, gently, along with that same woman. Beautiful and half-mad, she knew how to summon the whole madnessin you. Booze-soaked nights, you'd sit on the phone,thirsty for the moon, until she'd say, let's go get a drink,until she slid too far down her DNA helix to ever surface.You said, enough. By then, adults, texting once a year.An easy break, you thought. Then, you heard how she climbedthe tallest building she could find. She didn't callfor help. Only messaged her parents the same thing she scrawledon the note in her pocket, sorry. I'm tired of the pain.Still, months later, you scroll down to her name:dial her number. Hold your breath. Even after the roboticmessage, the phone is no longer—what drives you to sit,alone, stranded on your bed, and call and call again?