The Phonecall

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.