(Photo from 123RF, Royalty Free Stock Photos, edited)
I called your office one weekend. I knew you wouldn’t be there, but just knowing the phone would ring in your space made me feel closer to you. Your answering machine picked up my call, and I was shocked to hear your voice. Not one of the many layers between us had snagged the call so some self-important guardian at your gate could ward me off. Instead, I heard your voice, filled with warmth and caring. I wondered: how did you know I would call?
Once I knew you were waiting for my call, I punched in your number over and over, and listened to your unspoken words of affection. I called so many times, I could picture the telephone lines between my phone and yours burning up from overuse. With every call, I expected Ma Bell to answer, chastising me with “now you’ve done it.” But you were always there, filled with anticipation. Your voice embraced me, though you concealed your feelings from prying ears with words about office hours and the doctor on call.
That was so many years ago, and I got over you. Sorry. I heard after a while that you and your wife got divorced. By then I didn’t care, but I wondered: how did she know about us? You never did.