At the end of the conversation, there is a little hesitation.
A pause. Breathing, quickly.
So, you say. Good night.
The words loiter insouciantly in the air. Your lungs whisper on the phone, in and out, in and out in the way the defiant little stars disappear and reappear like sand crabs emerging from the beach. Your beach. The one where you are. I don’t want to break the silence, but I do anyways.
Good night. Chirped flippantly with a toss of the head. As if saying the words didn’t drag me down like new denim in the water.
His voice joins his body, somewhere away. Not here.
The click of the receiver breeds a profound emptiness. For a while, I let the drone fill the room. Let the phone fall.
Sound doesn’t travel in a vacuum, I think.
Everything, white noise.