4.17.2007 - The lost phone call

Word count: 351

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The phone is flipped open, the blue glow of its screen lost in the bright sunshine of a summer afternoon. A flick of a wrist closes it again.

A foot bounces on the knee of the opposite leg, unable to stay still for more than a moment.

The phone is opened again. Two minutes have gone by. A few thumb presses reveal a long list of names. Scrolling down, number twenty seven is only a few letters long, but all are capitalized, except for the final i. It stands out boldly from the others.

But a heavy sigh escapes and the phone’s cover hides the name from view again.

A cloud momentarily passes over the bench. A head comes up from its introspection and for a moment, notices the world around it.

The sun comes back, blinding in its strength, warming bare arms.

Fingers drum on wood, painted green, and worn by the elements and by decades of sitters. The fingers still, a conscious act, and roll into a white knuckled fist, then relax and rest, entwined with their other five companions on a lap.

A twitch. A sigh.

The phone is flipped open again, and two more minutes have passed. Again.

The tip of the phone’s cover taps gently against a nose, then rests there for a moment, as eyes close, lost in thoughts.

A slow intake of breath, a pause, and an even slower exhalation. It does not help the tight pain in the stomach, or the ball lodge in the throat.

One last look at the blue screen. There it is. The long string of numbers of an international call.

A call your service provider will not authorize because you do not subscribe to it.

A call you thus never made.

And now never will.

Two thumb presses delete the number from the list.

“Save changes?”

“Yes”

That strange pain, lodged precisely beneath the ribs, and at the same time all over the body, does not go away.

Silently, you slip the phone into the back pocket of your pants and cry.

Blue had been his favorite color.