I can feel the air primed and ready for it even before the telephone rings, atmosphere charged with electricity even though it’s an old phone, no battery. I hate telephones. This one’s only here because it came with the apartment, mounted on the wall in the bathroom with a rotary dial, sea foam green. I don’t even know the number. Sometimes it just rings.
Originally published January 29, 2015 in Fiddleblack, Issue 18.
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