The Ring

The Ring

You used to call me everyday. I could set my watch by the sound of your ring. It would be two o'clock with my eyes closed. Then I'd reach for the receiver to answer in a voice that seemed to come from high up in my throat, afraid it might not be you--just Purple Heart, did I have something to give, pick-up on Thursday. But then you'd say my name with a question mark after the last letter, like a child at the other end who had called a number, any number, just to see who would answer.
The phone squats heavily on the desk, a dark cloud without a rumble, no more lightning, an island silent in the ocean of noise around me. Children's voices rise and fall outside. They play; they think they are happy like I thought I was before I waited for the phone to ring. Did I laugh too loud, were my stories too long, no point to them, really. Did they bore you, were you stifling a yawn, wondering when would I give up and move on?
Is that what I should do? Wander into the kitchen, bake cookies, thaw out the ice-box, iron my husband's shirts, call my mother? Thoughts of you nest in my hair like unwanted gnats that hover and cling. I didn't want this to happen. Keep it casual I told myself. Stay cool, be friendly, a little aloof. But then I started to depend on the golden moment, your voice, the laugh that made me feel I had said something very humorous, something clever, something smart. I picked your brain; you picked mine.
So it's back to real life again. No more day dreams, just pick up the socks, do the laundry, read the paper, wait for the soaps, watch the romances unfold, stare at "Dancing with the Stars", fill the albums and the scrap books and remember when the phone did ring and it wasn't the Salvation Army calling. It was Johnny Depp.