Missed Calls
Missed Calls
I feel a little buzz in my pocket, hear the radio near the bed squeal at the interference of the silenced phone alerting me of someone calling my name. “Billie!” I smile, holding the vibrating device in my hand as I turn the radio down. “I’m thinking about you,” it said. “Michael is thinking about you. He wants to talk. He misses you.”
I almost thought I heard it say, “He loves you.”
But no. It didn’t say that, because my Michael wouldn’t say that. Not now, anyway. Not now that we’d decided to move on, to keep those distant kisses secret and silent as the buzzing phone in my small, rough hand, with only the occasional vibrations sending signals like eye contact to tell each other that we were still in love and make every channel of thought I’d ever begun to have screech to a halt like the radio on the night stand. With only the blinking light showing the words, “1 Missed Call,” on the screen, like private smiles and brushed hands, because neither of us can stay away from the other.
Because we’re in love.
And because we’re in love, we can’t always talk. It’s the nature of our little unspoken bargain. Because everything we say reminds us of those pieces of ourselves we’ve left in one another and the pieces we’ve agreed never to share again, to give to other people but never to each other. Reminds us of every memory of kisses and touches and soft words from that time we were together, one person, complete and happy for one night, one portion of a night, and the only record left of it is a silenced cell phone with a screen that blinks the words “1 Missed Call.” It’s not even a record. It’s only a memory.
And each blink says something more.
“He wants to hear from you,” it says.
“You’re on his mind, just like he’s on yours.”
“Why aren’t you calling him back?”
As that final question screams out to me, I feel that heart-warming buzz again. That beautiful vibration. I see Mike’s name, in bold letters that stand out against the rest on the screen simply because of the word they form, telling me to answer his plea and pick up the phone.
“He wants to hear your voice.”
I want to hear his too. I want to hear his voice without imagining his hand on my back, his patient, thin lips keeping me awake through the early morning hours, each kiss a jolt of adrenaline denying me sleep. I knew it wouldn’t last, I suppose. Somewhere deep down, my body told me to enjoy every second of this. Every second of his gentle hands and quickly beating heart which told me my lips did the same for him. It was comforting, I think. I liked the confirmation there, beneath my head, beneath my hand, close to my own rapidly beating heart.
He probably knew too. Better than me because he always has. It was only for one night.
“2 Missed Calls.”
Blink. “He hopes you’re not mad at him.”
Blink. “He’s afraid of losing you.”
Blink. “Don’t upset him, Billie.”
But what would we have said? It would only have disappointed us both. Friendly hellos, expressions of boredom, maybe a story about something that happened today or yesterday or last week. Insignificant things. Things that would never prove to make us forget the secret, quiet kisses and the whispered confessions that shake the world around us silently, confuse our thoughts, like cell phones vibrating in our pockets.
He wasn’t going to tell me he loved me.
But the phone would. Each vibration and blink of the screen that warned me of missed calls would tell me, or hint to me, or at least make my intuition buzz with the words that let me know that Mike loves me. No matter how he resists saying them. No matter how he warns me against it too. The missed calls on my cell phone say everything for him.
I almost thought I heard it say, “He loves you.”
But no. It didn’t say that, because my Michael wouldn’t say that. Not now, anyway. Not now that we’d decided to move on, to keep those distant kisses secret and silent as the buzzing phone in my small, rough hand, with only the occasional vibrations sending signals like eye contact to tell each other that we were still in love and make every channel of thought I’d ever begun to have screech to a halt like the radio on the night stand. With only the blinking light showing the words, “1 Missed Call,” on the screen, like private smiles and brushed hands, because neither of us can stay away from the other.
Because we’re in love.
And because we’re in love, we can’t always talk. It’s the nature of our little unspoken bargain. Because everything we say reminds us of those pieces of ourselves we’ve left in one another and the pieces we’ve agreed never to share again, to give to other people but never to each other. Reminds us of every memory of kisses and touches and soft words from that time we were together, one person, complete and happy for one night, one portion of a night, and the only record left of it is a silenced cell phone with a screen that blinks the words “1 Missed Call.” It’s not even a record. It’s only a memory.
And each blink says something more.
“He wants to hear from you,” it says.
“You’re on his mind, just like he’s on yours.”
“Why aren’t you calling him back?”
As that final question screams out to me, I feel that heart-warming buzz again. That beautiful vibration. I see Mike’s name, in bold letters that stand out against the rest on the screen simply because of the word they form, telling me to answer his plea and pick up the phone.
“He wants to hear your voice.”
I want to hear his too. I want to hear his voice without imagining his hand on my back, his patient, thin lips keeping me awake through the early morning hours, each kiss a jolt of adrenaline denying me sleep. I knew it wouldn’t last, I suppose. Somewhere deep down, my body told me to enjoy every second of this. Every second of his gentle hands and quickly beating heart which told me my lips did the same for him. It was comforting, I think. I liked the confirmation there, beneath my head, beneath my hand, close to my own rapidly beating heart.
He probably knew too. Better than me because he always has. It was only for one night.
“2 Missed Calls.”
Blink. “He hopes you’re not mad at him.”
Blink. “He’s afraid of losing you.”
Blink. “Don’t upset him, Billie.”
But what would we have said? It would only have disappointed us both. Friendly hellos, expressions of boredom, maybe a story about something that happened today or yesterday or last week. Insignificant things. Things that would never prove to make us forget the secret, quiet kisses and the whispered confessions that shake the world around us silently, confuse our thoughts, like cell phones vibrating in our pockets.
He wasn’t going to tell me he loved me.
But the phone would. Each vibration and blink of the screen that warned me of missed calls would tell me, or hint to me, or at least make my intuition buzz with the words that let me know that Mike loves me. No matter how he resists saying them. No matter how he warns me against it too. The missed calls on my cell phone say everything for him.