By a fish called sid
I pick up the phone and his voice reminds me of the indifference with which he spoke of everything but me. It reminds me of when he tried to sing for me, but he got embarrassed because voice was so deep. I appreciated it anyway-he knew how much I liked his deep voice.
We fill the phone line's silence with endless chatter-almost as if we were the same as we were a week ago. I remember the comfortable silence that was between us when we were together, sitting on my couch watching Disney movies. I saw how intently he focused on everything, even the dumb things we watched on TV. I saw him sitting at my piano, or with my guitar in his lap, free-style fingerpicking like he wasn't trying to show off.
We continue talking on the phone, and things are almost like had been. Except in our conversation there is an undertone of regret that hadn't been there when we'd talked all those times before. We both tried to ignore it as I filled my mind with the way his chest would rise and fall under my ear. How he'd wear shoes two sizes two big and manage to have them look good on him. How he was colorblind and only saw red and blue-red was his favorite color. How I met him when I was wearing my fairy wings, and he'd asked me if I could fly.
On the phone, I asked him if he remembered that I promised to take him to a llama farm. He'd always loved llamas for some reason. He said he did remember; I said that I still promised to do it. He asked me if I remembered how he'd promised to be my
'bodyguard' at any concerts I went to. I said that I did. I definitely did. He said that he, too, still promised. I thought of how we would talk for hours on the phone, debating about music. How he'd always win, even though I was the one on the debate team. How he'd always tease me because that dumb 80s song, "To Be With You" always made me cry. How I made him dance with me to it. I told him how we hadn't danced in a while. We hadn't even seen each other. The llamas were waiting.
I asked if he could come over quickly tonight. It was a simple request, but I guess it was enough. The regret flooded out of our conversation, and we said good-bye. Hours later I watched him walking up my driveway. I remembered how he always left his shirttails un-tucked, hanging out from his sweatshirts. They were still un-tucked today-nothing had changed. And as he knocked on my door I had the feeling instilled in me that this would turn out ok.