Sunday morning, January 6th. I sit at my dinette table staring at the gray and black boxes of the crossword puzzle and chewing on the cap of an ink pen. It's been three days since you left. The phone rings, but I don't get up to answer it because I know it's you. There's an urgency in the ring I can almost hear. Also, you're the only one who calls at 7 in the morning because you always forget about time zones. You're lucky I couldn't sleep. My answering machine cuts off your opportunity to catch me live and in person.
"Kay here. Can't come to the phone so do your thing."
I changed it 15 minutes after you turned the corner away from our street. For some reason, it was the first thing I thought about, the greeting on the answering machine.
BEEP
"It's me," you say, because you know I'd recognize that exasperation anywhere.
"I really can't stand that voice mail greeting. I said I was coming back, right? I just needed to get away for a while and...Look, I'm not getting into it with your answering machine. Anyway, I just got into Portland. You'd really love it. I have an appointment with a publisher next week, can you believe it? Well, I miss you."
There's a sigh, and then a click as you hang up. I find I've turned myself toward the direction of your voice with my arm bracing the back of the chair, my legs ready to jump up and race to the phone at a moment's notice. I relax my muscles and turn back to 41 down. Eight letters. Leaves, withdraws; as into privacy.
R
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R
E
A
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S
Wednesday afternoon, January 16th. I'm at work skimming through a student's essay about Faulkner
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