Even before I call, I know you won't pick up. I'm not sure why I even bother. The buzzing ring taunts me. I don't know why it's called a ring anyway. It doesn't sound anything like a ring. It sounds like a bee that flies next to your ear and hovers there for a second, disappears, and then reappears again out of thin air. It's taunting. You want to smack it, you want to hear another sound, any other sound at all. Nails on a chalkboard would be more pleasant than the non-ringing that never ends.
I've memorized your answering machine message. It wasn't too difficult, considering it is only three sentences. I know your tone of voice. I know your pronunciation. I know because it's the only way I've heard your voice over the past four weeks. The only words I've heard you say are "Hey guys! Sorry I missed your call, but leave me a message and I will get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks!" A lie. I recognize it. A boldface truth that has now become a boldface lie.
I've considered leaving you messages a thousand times. A thousand times, a thousand messages. I always chicken out before the beep. That beep, a blip of a sound, the universal signal for "start talking now." Amazing how scary that beep is. I am more afraid of that beep than I am of heights, bees and Friday the 13th. What to say? What should I say?
I've only left you one message. Although I don't think it should even count as a message. I called. The bee buzzed next to my ear. Your voice killed the bee. The beep came. I froze. I didn't know what to say or what I should say. Silence. Nothing filled the air. Nothing filled my ears. I was trapped in my own language. I couldn't find anything to say. And you can't find any reason to call me back.