Phony

Twelve gray buttons, at least 12, without allowing for redial, flash, speed dial and all the others. An antenna or a spiraling fusilli of a cord. Holes, mine has 13; is that symbolic? Four small, five large, another four small. The other end consists of four indentations and only one hole. Because what I have to say cowers before what I have to listen to or hear. Gray plastic, what a horrible shade for a telephone. Why can't it be bright yellow or dark scarlet in the shape of a full, ready set of lips, or a Garfield with moving eyes, staring questioningly when you lift the receiver. But the agent of my pain, or lack thereof, sits lifelessly in my hand, a bland, cold, gray. SONY it reads on the bottom as it flaunts its infallibility. But maybe she meant to call.

Is that her over there standing at the window of the Burkshire? Tall, slender, blonde? No way! She is short and fat. But that blonde over there . . .

She flipped a yellow curl over her shoulder as she settled into the plush recliner by the window. The black night lay out before her but she failed to notice it. Instead her eyes stared straight ahead at the television. It was another Andy Griffith marathon on Nick at Night, something to get her mind off of what had happened. Anything. A pink plush object crouched on the gray carpet, ready to pounce at any moment, with its shrill ring. But he wouldn't dare call now, right when she had found some semblance of distraction. She hurls the plastic perpetrator at a smug Barney Fife.

Bob heard a noise from in the shower and he hurriedly gets out and marathons it to the living room. It is the phone! He knows it! Except that it is not his, but the now inoperable pink Panasonic in the apartment upstairs. Sadly following the trail of immature puddles back to the bathroom, he casts a sidelong glance at the cordless on the couch. Then he does an about face and grabs it, thinking of tossing it down the stairs.

Elizabeth sits on the stairs before the subway platform of the dark city street, unable to hear the pounding of her heart over the chorus of car horns. She hopes she will be able to hear the telephone. When did people forget the value of silence? Her frayed sweater is just sparse enough that the chill in the air teases her with its chalky fingers.

The couple run through the beginning downpour, anxious to reach shelter before the Prada shoes and Armani suits end up spoiled with dark gray splatters. After all they are dry clean only. They pass behind a sleek black limousine as the driver gives them a nod of recognition.