The Telephone

"It's broken.", she said.
"It's not broken, it's just disconnected. But it's there, just leave it there, Babe."
He lit a cigarrette and she seemed to take her mind off of the phone. The she bummed one from him and they stood sitted on the bed. An ashtray between them.
An old Tori Amos album was playing in the record player.
"She's Your Cocaine...", she was singing the lyrics. "(...) She's got you shaving your legs..."
Smoke filled the half lit room, shaded by and old red velvety persian drawer with a mandala knitted on it.
They were both disconnected from the world for a week. Time well spent wondering around the room for proofs of love, they found it just there. That week would never be erased from the history of the world. Unknown to others, outsiders. But time and history far exceed what one thinks at a particular instant. They just are, you can't change.
That's why love lives forever, even an instant of love, it can't be erased once it came to reality.
We strive to go from here to there to do what we think must be done, but we never do the things we want, not really. You have to understand that to do what you want, you must do it yourself. Help is welcome, but when you want things, you cannot bring yourself to not want them.
Him, he learned to breathe, and find a way, and he does it.
Then, the telephone rang.
He answered, awkwardly.
"Hello?"
"Do you know how to die?"
"What?", he said looking at her "What the fuck?"
"You've learned it."
"What the fuck are you saying? Who the hell are you, anyway?"
"You know how to die."
"Hey, who are you? How are you doing this? Calling me on this phone."
No answer.
He hung up the phone.
There was cocaine on the table. He served himself four big lines and got down on his knees to snort it.
Then, the phone rang again.
She answered this time.
"Hello?! Who are you, you creep?"
"He knows how to die."
"Fuck you!"
No answer.