69 Minutes of Waiting

69 Minutes of Waiting

Over an hour
of watching
the phone
just sitting there:

unrelenting,
mesmerized,
and flattened,

thinking
over and over
to pick it up,
dial the number,
stay
on the line,
listen
for the pick up,

then feel
self-confident
and yet humiliated
enough to say it,
to sit in silence,

or worse,
he speaks
and breaks the space
with any request
or comment
or praise.

Praise
is the worst.

She calls
and he says,
"Good Girl,"
and she reels
from a fear
of being talked
into vulnerability

or
worse,
being captured
with words,
weakened
and seduced,
and she freezes
in between
fawning
and fainting.

Finally,
she does dial.

He
does answer.

She can't say
a word.

She can't feel
fearless.

Her frozen fingers
hover
above her clit
as she awaits
his openness.

"Tell me a story, "
she begins.

His words bring up
easy images.

His voice is soothing
and substantial.

Her fingers drop
and echo wave
into a scintillation
of voicescapes.

Her breath
undulates.

Just before
his story ends,
her lungs fill,
her breathing drops,
and her eyes
glide
in her darkness.

"Good stories.
Thank you."

"My pleasure, "
he reassures her.

"Good night,"
she signs off.

He hangs up
the phone,
and thinks
of her,
coffee
at midnight,
and dreams.