California British Tea

I pick up the phone. I hang up the phone. I pick up the phone. I hang up the phone. I pick up the phone. I dial a number and wait to hear her voice on the other end. I hear her voice. I remember the smell of Easter lilies and saltwater. I hang up the phone. I know she's home.

Outside it does not rain but the sky looks grey and the world seems mellow and stained in old hues. The buildings all seem strangely square. They look like tall used teabags, square-shaped discarded coffee filters stood up and given strange dimensions. I see myself in a mirror by the window. I look strangely square-shaped. I see myself in the window's glass and disappear in the face of the building across the street. A woman sees me from across the way. She looks like a tealeaf. I wave.

I buy contradictory products on purpose. My Swiss chocolate came from a small town in Italy. My Indian ink came from Mexico. My British breakfast tea shipped from a manufacturer in California. I call myself a South American even though I'm actually just from southern America. I keep the contradictions alive. I fight the power. My Danishes are not Danish. Some products flat-out lie.

I pick up the phone. I hang up the phone. I already know she's home. I go to the door and open it. I close the door. I open the door; I close it again. I open the door again, slowly. I slam the door shut. I think to myself, Grow a pair. I open the door and walk out onto the grey street.

I called a 1-800 number last night and spoke to a woman who called herself Kiki. I asked her for her real name. She said she could be whoever I wanted for an hour. I asked if the call was toll free and she laughed. Kiki's laugh sounded like hers. I told this to Kiki who asked if I wanted to call her by that name, and I said no thank you, politely, like my mother had told me to. I guess most mothers say things like that, but mine only said it once. Kiki asked what I wanted. I asked her what she'd wanted to be when she grew up. She'd answered that it wasn't this and hung up. I hung up the phone.

I walk to the place where she lives. I climb the stairs. I find her door number. I like this number because it's even and has a B after it. I raise my hand to knock. I lower my hand. I raise my hand. I scratch my scalp and lower my hand. I listen to the door. It tells me she's still home, but cannot say if she has guests. I run back down the stairs. It rains.

I left my door unlocked. I remember as I run through the rain. People might have stolen things. I might come back to an empty apartment. I might find a ransom note for my things. It may say if I ever want to see my things again I'll bring one-point-five million dollars to the docks tonight. Or it might say I'll never see my things again, ever. The note might use profanity. I don't curse; I swear.

I walk into my apartment. I note everything in its place. Nothing gone; nothing has moved. I find no notes I have not written. I sigh. My Californian British breakfast tea smiles back at me when I grin in its general direction. I think silly thoughts in the rain. I pick up the phone and dial the number. I wait for her voice on the other end.

"Oh," I say. "You're home." I say it like I'm surprised.