Missed Call.

I hold the phone to my ear. I try to ignore the fear that creeps behind each cycle of the ring tone. The metallic chime rattles. There is a short intermission of oblivion. For a moment I think she’s answered. I see her picking up the phone, raising it to her ear, listening for what’s waiting on the other side. There’s no answer, so she remains quiet in her expectance. I can see her standing beside her sofa, her broad shoulders looming over the plastic side table where she keeps her phone. Her pale arms are vanilla intermissions against the vile lemon-green walls of her apartment. The air-conditioning is stuck again, so the room is colder than it should be, and her skin is prickled with goosebumps. 

The ring tone comes again, dissolving that image of bare shoulders and secondhand furniture. It pulls me forward, and I feel the fear creeping in. I look at the picture of us on the wall. I barely recognise us. Years have passed us by. I can feel it behind my eyes. I can feel it under my bones. We’re not the same people anymore. She’s moved to the city. She’s explored, herself. I have remained stationary. I’ve remained stuck. Not for any particular reason, but simply because that is how things are. And so, I’m calling, to try keep myself in her mind. That’s important, it seems. If I can do that, then it doesn’t matter how stuck I am. If I’m in her mind, then I’m being carried with her, on those odd explorations. I’m the shadow in her adventures. That’s worth something, isn’t it?

 The ring tone whistles through the tunnelled cartilage of my ear. She doesn’t text me anymore. That’s another reason why I’m calling. Perhaps she’s too stylish to text now. Maybe she wants to, but can’t find the right words to use. I glance at the photograph of us again. Yes, maybe that’s it. Maybe she can’t find the right words to use. Maybe, just maybe, something’s still there, and she simply doesn’t know how to say it. No, that’s not it. She doesn’t text me because she doesn’t want to. She doesn’t call because she has nothing to say. But I’m trying to find something to hold onto, so I tell myself these little lies. And that makes me feel better.

The ring tone comes again. I begin to pace. She doesn’t text anymore. She doesn’t call. And yet, I can still see us in the countryside. The trees are blooming. The sun comes through the canopies. It’s not like the vile lemon-grass green of her apartment walls. This is bright and natural. The glow touches everything. The air is warm. Behind us, the house stands open, and time ceases to exist. There’s no distance. No separation. There’s just a simple drifting in and out of the dream. 

Things aren’t ever as they seem though. The ring tone comes, and then it’s cut short.

The oblivion is real. Through the silence I can hear the static echo of her breathing. “Hello.” Her voice is familiar in its strangeness. 

She’s answered, as if she doesn’t know who it is. I ignore that. That doesn’t matter. I look at the photograph again. What matters is that I keep myself in her mind. “Hello,” I answer.

There is a pause. Deliberation. Hesitation. “Hello,” she says again. This time there is a touch of pleasant surprise, but it’s false. The reticence, however brief, is enough to dispel any pageantry. But I ignore all of that. 

I ask how things are going. 

She tells me about the city. She tells me about her exploration. The escapades. The learnings. I don’t really listen. I’m thinking about the apartment with the sickly walls. The crumbling sofa and the dented side table. I’m thinking about the place in the countryside. All that sunshine. That everlasting glow. I’m thinking about the things I know, like the photograph on the wall. I’m not listening to these new things. 

There’s a disturbance on the other side of the line. A sound in the background. Her voice goes higher, as if to mask its presence. But I’ve heard it. It’s pierced through everything like a molten lance. She stops speaking. I can sense her discomfort feed on my attentiveness. The sound is gone, but I can still hear its phantom linger. The realisation strikes me. She tells me about her exploration. The escapades. The learnings. But she doesn’t tell me about the people. I’ve never thought of the people, because I don’t really listen. But now I realise. And now I question. Who are these people? Who is that on the other end of the line?

The apartment with the side table, and her pale arms has been invaded. The goosebumps on her skin are not because of the air conditioning. The place in the countryside isn’t ours. My voice isn’t part of that din. 

I try to ignore all of that though. She’s answered the call. Things are missed. Questions aren’t asked, and there’s no need for answers. There’s a shared relief in that. I take it back to the simple things. She’s in the city. And I’m stuck here. But that’s okay. The escapades don’t matter. Not really. I look at the photograph. When she hangs up, I’ll still be in her mind. And that will be enough. 

That will be enough, won’t it?