Pick up the phone. Please, pick up the phone.
I know you’re there; I know you’re listening to it ringing. I know that you never turn it off; you keep saying you will, but I know you haven’t, yet. I know its little chirping ring is the only thing that can pull you out of a muzzy-headed hangover, tear you from the arms of dreaming. I know that even if you’re half suffocated by his body weight and his mouth at your throat, you can hear it ringing.
Pick it up.
It’s cold outside, bitter and frigid and I feel like if I don’t keep blinking that I’ll form ice on my corneas, like the car windshield does, when it’s spectacularly winter. Or on the inside, like the car windshield does, when it’s beyond spectacularly winter, and we’re inside it, huddled and breathing, steam turned to frost etchings, like some sprite of winter is desperately trying to carve messages out of these feathery spikes. Help me, I’m cold. For a good time, call Missy Claus at 967-SNO-BABE. There once was a snowflake from Perth… And so on.
The phone, damn you. The fucking phone. PICK. IT. UP.
It’s been ringing for how long? The operator’s going to come on any second and tell me that it’s obvious I’m not going to get through; maybe you’re not home or you’re busy, and would I like to try again later? No. No I don’t want to try again later. I want you here now. I want you to untie your legs from around his hips and I want you to climb out from under him and I want you to pick up the phone, breathless and maybe even furious because you know damn well who’s calling you at this hour.
I want you to answer me.
Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I heard your voice? Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve touched you? I could be sleeping now, dreaming sweet, curled up in warm, clean sheets, but instead I’m out here where there’s nothing akin to warmth and I’m pretty sure my fingers and toes have gone numb and I need you to just do this one tiny thing for me.
Pick up the phone.