…Like the smell of your hair. I pass people on the noisy street, the air smelling of fried food, sweat, and heated asphalt – and suddenly I think I caught it somewhere – the earthly, enveloping, sinuous – smell of your hair. I stop and look around, imagining that I saw you passing by, but no one is there – only somebody bumping into me and grumbling under their breath. I stick my hands in my pockets and continue on, playing wit the memory, a heap of images in my head, all thrown at me and all piling to block my thoughts and vision.
I find a phone booth and dial the long number – so long, I imagine that everyone in the world has their number, a code to their head, which could be accessed from every trivial payphone; you just need to know the code. The lady in my ear speaks English, then French, then Spanish, and I cut her off before she ventures into Chinese. And then there’s a muffled, static-cy “Yeah?” on the other end, and then a “Hello”, and then a “Who is this?”, and then a “Please come back later, I’m on the phone,” to the side.
“Hello,” I say, leaning against the side of the door. I hear my voice echo in the wires as it travels half the planet to you – more than a usual human being travels in a lifetime. My “Hello” is eaten by the distance and becomes only a “’llo” on your end, but by the way you are silent I know that you know who it is.
You are talking then, a rush of syllables, which I’m unable to decipher.
“Hello, hello, hello. D’you hear me? …Bloody…vacuum. Come back later! I don’t…maintenance. D’you hear me? I bought…daft…”
I listen to it and try to memorize every word, and I chant “Hey, you there? Heyyouthere? There? You? Hey? There?” when I can’t hear him anymore.
“Warm…and you know what he said? He said…”
“There?”
“…and the rest of the music. …Believe that? Daft. Daaaaft. On your end? Hello? Are you there?”
“Here.”
“Where?”
“Nowhere. Listen…”
“…payphones. Can’t understand…miss?”
“I do.”
“…the time. Come…tomorrow, what’d’u’ay?”
“I love you so much.”
“…and then he took the book and ripped each page out of it! Just like that! And he said, “burn it!” And they did! He is daft. Daaaaaft. ”
Then it is dead. The lady chants in my ear in English, in French, in Spanish, and she even does it in Chinese.
But before she can go on to Russian I cut her off with a click of the phone. Stick my hands in my pockets.
Rock on my heels. Finger my chin. Rub my eyes. Mess my hair.
Play with the button on my coat. Tug at the loose string.
Breathe deeply.
And then the sun sets and it is dark.
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