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I just had to hear his voice....... |
The phone-call It was a little after eleven and I was half-lying/half-sitting on my bed, staring at a scarily life-like photo of him (complete with diamond glistening in left earlobe), when the phone rang. I glanced warily at it, and then practically jerked into an upright position when I realized the same photo I had been staring at was now flashing across the screen of my cellphone, accompanied by the words “Anderson calling” in bright red. For a moment I was stupefied and couldn’t move; a customary thing whenever he calls. Finally, just before the ringing gave way to my voicemail message, I answered. His voice, like some intoxicating liquid, eased into my ear. “You always take so long to pick up”. I paused, partly because my heart was still pounding (making it difficult for me to draw a breath), partly because I’m usually never sure how to respond to the first few words he says to me during our conversations. After a short while, I managed to speak. “I wasn’t in my room when the phone rang. I just walked in”. (A lie that sounded better than admitting to him I had really been staring at his photo like a love-sick puppy). “Okay”, he replied. “So how was your day?” I wanted to tell him it was difficult. I wanted even more to tell him it was difficult because I couldn’t get him out of my mind. I chose to lie to him again instead. “It was great. How was yours?” Unlike me, he didn’t miss a beat. “Busy. Always busy these days. Between school and my job, I don’t get much free time”….. We went on that way for a while, making small talk, when ever so suddenly he aimed a missile. “You know, I really miss you, Denise.” Target achieved. Whenever he said things like that to me, I felt my insides turn to mush. My stomach parts were already softening; another word and they would fall out of my rare-end. Unaware of this, he continued. “I know I don’t call as much as I used to…but the truth is, calling you really depresses me”. This time, a different type of missile hit a target spot, and immediately I was wounded. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. “Don’t take that the wrong way, now”, he said (using the same tone I remembered him using back when we were together and I was becoming irritated for some reason or other), “I didn’t mean it the way you think I do”. “Then what did you mean?” It was his turn to pause. A pause in Anderson-language always meant he was thinking of the best way to say something that wouldn’t be easily swallowed by the listener. I was afraid now. “What I meant to say to say was….I don’t understand, Denise. It’s always the same thing when we have this conversation. I tell you how much I miss you…that I’m still in love with you. Very much in love with you. Your reply is always the same; you share my feelings. In case you didn’t know, hearing that hurts. I don’t call much anymore because I don’t want you to hurt me.” Now the wound had deepened. I couldn’t say a word. His words had ripped me apart. But the worst part wasn’t that I felt moved through pity for him. It was the fact that what believed-that I didn’t love him-couldn’t be further from the truth. “Anderson…” “Yes Denise?” I became vaguely aware of my mother’s voice in the hallway. Her footsteps were approaching my door. A knock followed. “D?” he called gently. “Are you still there?” The knock came again. “Anderson, I have to go”, I said hurriedly, and hung up before he could ask me why. |