Phone
The phone rang.
It was one of those old phones you can’t find anymore: solid, black, lacquered, corded, with real bells for the ringer, sitting squared on an end table. I answered mid-ring.
The receiver was heavy in my hand.
“Hello?”
“You thought I wouldn’t find out?”
I dropped the receiver. It hit the cracking linoleum floor with a dull clatter, the dark shape contrasted against the awful speckled pattern, the tiles yellowed with age. I hadn’t heard his voice since he stormed out a few nights ago.
I held my breath as I retrieved the receiver, my hands swimming through the too-bright florescent light pouring from the ceiling.
“I uh…”
“It’s your fault, you know.”
I could feel the blood drain from my face, the burning sensation behind the neck fogging my thoughts, the gentle tremors running through my legs. I needed to sit down, to escape.
I slowly, gently, hung up, placing the receiver on the cradle carefully, deliberately, trying not to make the slightest “click,” knowing that small noise would shatter my entire world.
My eyes burned with effort, holding back the tears. Was this remorse? Was it grief? Was it terror?
I slowed my breathing and smoothed out my blouse, my white fingers trembling against the black fabric. I pulled open the double doors and rejoined the wake, his large, dark coffin standing out against the explosions of flowers and wreaths.