The Phone Call

She lies in her bed, dressed in the gold satin dress, black beads along the edges, and wonders, waits, trembles, hoping he will call. The rain outside, the black, the thunder, penetrates.

He sits and waits. His heart beating through his chest keeping time with the cold round clock on the wall, everything is black and white, everything is right and wrong. But her, but this, this is different. This is mist on the green grass in the first light of day, the drops of dew gleaming with the rays from the sun. The keys of the piano in the corner mock him. We are life, they say, we are truth. We are black and white—she is the leftover pink haze after the sun has retired behind the black velvet curtain of night.

And she waits. Hands shaking with fear. She waits for his words over the phone, his abated breath as he reaches out, says hello, and waits. She waits to say hi. Simple. Complex. The rain smears the window. Colors run down the lucid glass, the world melting from within.

Hand on the phone, fingers quaking with love, with fear, this fear that overwhelms, that overtakes, that controls his every move—his every breath sped up, his lungs in and out, giving and receiving, hoping to be loved in return.

The phone rings. Rings. She inhales, deeply. Giving life to words if—

A third ring. His mind flooded with doubts, the beads of sweat their screaming, their cries for help, their final gulp of pure air, of…

She picks up. The phone guides itself to her ear, her perfect hair, lips and eyes, all ready, all waiting—she sits up, her blankets sheets and pillows all clinging, trying, wanting to keep her from…her eyes dart to the rain soaked world, her fuzzy self in the reflection.

Piano keys scream, throw themselves on the floor in protest, first the white, then the black, the pedals fight to be let free, to unscrew themselves, to flee this room, this impending disaster, this fear-filled chance about to be taken.

She waits.

Hello—

Hi—

Colors melt into light. Fear into hope. Dark rooms lift and separate from the world. Their voices the only thing visible in the night sky. Words become energy. Lightning outside their windows. Streaks of immeasurable improbability.

~ by kevinthomas on February 5, 2007.