Unavailable
She calls them every week now, whether or not she has any news to share. Because if she doesn't, they wonder what she's up to and why she hasn't called in so long. No matter that she usually speaks to them more often than once a week. Time moves in different circles for them. One day flows into the next. Tomorrow could be next week for all they know. She wonders how each individual minute passes for them...
The line continues to ring as she skillfully holds the phone between her shoulder and ear and chops the cucumbers for a dinner salad. The automated voice attenuates the last ring: The party you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.
She's heard those words before, many times. But in that singular moment, with the sun streaming into her eyes and the paring knife poised over the cucumber, a realization washes over her. The party you are trying to reach is unavailable. She drops the knife to the cutting board, and grips the phone between her fingers as her shoulders slump. Turning, she leans back against the counter top, willing her voice to make a noise as the beep sounds in her ear. The party you are trying to reach is unavailable. She pushes the end button and replaces the phone into its cradle.
One simple phrase really, that manages to propel her thoughts into a hurricane. She thinks back to conversations from last week, last month, last year. If she thinks about them in detail, every one of them sounds the same: words dotted by talk of the weather, and the kids; work and home. No details, just vague brush strokes against a blank white canvas. Rush on, rush off the phone. She knows they will get back to her when they see her number on caller ID. Their physical unavailability is temporary; their mental unavailability, though. Well, that's another story now, isn't it?
The party you are trying to reach is unavailable. It's a thought that could hurt her, should hurt her. But the last couple of years have hardened her hide as well as her psyche. Wiping her hands on the dish towel, she adjusts her spine and moves on to the next task on her list.
The line continues to ring as she skillfully holds the phone between her shoulder and ear and chops the cucumbers for a dinner salad. The automated voice attenuates the last ring: The party you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.
She's heard those words before, many times. But in that singular moment, with the sun streaming into her eyes and the paring knife poised over the cucumber, a realization washes over her. The party you are trying to reach is unavailable. She drops the knife to the cutting board, and grips the phone between her fingers as her shoulders slump. Turning, she leans back against the counter top, willing her voice to make a noise as the beep sounds in her ear. The party you are trying to reach is unavailable. She pushes the end button and replaces the phone into its cradle.
One simple phrase really, that manages to propel her thoughts into a hurricane. She thinks back to conversations from last week, last month, last year. If she thinks about them in detail, every one of them sounds the same: words dotted by talk of the weather, and the kids; work and home. No details, just vague brush strokes against a blank white canvas. Rush on, rush off the phone. She knows they will get back to her when they see her number on caller ID. Their physical unavailability is temporary; their mental unavailability, though. Well, that's another story now, isn't it?
The party you are trying to reach is unavailable. It's a thought that could hurt her, should hurt her. But the last couple of years have hardened her hide as well as her psyche. Wiping her hands on the dish towel, she adjusts her spine and moves on to the next task on her list.
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