Perhaps October
He called, and we spoke over the crackle of the telephone line for the first time. The depth and richness of his voice caught me completely off guard, as did his composure; though if asked, I wouldn't have been able to say what I thought he ought to have sounded like.
I told myself, "Hey, he is a musician, just like me." A maybe-explanation for the mellow melody of his voice, modulated by the buzz of the fuzzy phoneline.
It was odd to think that we've never actually met, but such is one of the wonders of the modern world connected by wires and invisible waves. So why does it bother me that we might never get to meet?
The clock on my kitchen table had stopped at ten minutes to eleven, and there was no telling if it was morning or night. But if his morning was my night, then does it matter?
Time stood suspended as he retold his story, as we traced over previous conversations and walked over ground already worn old by tracks. Several times, I interjected my protests, unable to hold back my anger at circumstances beyond either of our control, his words continually getting lost in the ether that was neither here nor there, the envelope between now and forever. Life is a tightrope woven from the fragile fabric of existence. Watch where you walk or you might fall.
"Hey, if I get through all this, I might see you in October," he said, slipping forced cheer over the sudden nervousness in his voice.
I tried thinking about where I would be in October, and was painfully aware that I didn't know.
"You could come here right now, you know," I half-joked. "Fly out of there. Fly somewhere."
It was strange to think that I would say such to someone I've never met and may no longer have the possibility to meet in the flesh.
His voice dropped to a soft hush. "You know, it just occurred to me that this might be the last time I ever speak to you on the phone..."
There was nothing else I could do. I held onto hope until my knuckles were white.
Then we said goodbye.
26 January 2004, Monday, 1:04 PM
Alter ego of dandruff
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