This Call May Be Monitored by Frances Luévano

“We miss you,” I say, like always.

Then there’s this quiet on the other line. A gap in the noise where somewhere, somewhere, I can hear the sound of him taking in a breath.

Finally, through the rusty gargle of the landline, he replies, “I miss you, too.”

And my hand, the hand that’s been so intent on adjusting its grip around the phone, stills.

“You didn’t…” My words trail off like footsteps before a cliff. “Didn’t say ‘I miss you all’.”

He laughs, his exhaustion becoming more apparent.

“That’s because this time I realized what you’ve really been saying all this time. ‘We miss you’? Are you hiding behind the ‘we’? You sure it’s not just you?”

“No, we really do all miss you.”

“You know what I mean.”

I turn and slide down against the wall, kicking my feet out across the kitchen floor and pulling the cord with me.

“I do know what you mean. Doesn’t mean I’m going to admit to it.”

“Ah, but it is true?”

Yeti comes scampering in and settles next to me, begging for pets. “I still hate you,” I whisper at it.

“What?”

“I was just talking to the stupid cat. Sorry.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I was too busy petting the cat.”

He laughs again. “So is it true?”

I try to hold off, make him wait some more. Just to gain back the control that’s been slipping through my fingers since I picked up the phone.

Finally: “Yes.”

“Okay,” he replies. “Say it.”

The world slows down. My eyes flit around the room as I fight a smile and listen to him breathe. For a man like him, his breaths are delicate.

I try to pretend he’s here. Next to me and breathing the same air and petting the same stupid cat and close enough to touch. But then the world speeds up again. And I realize our fifteen minutes could be up soon.

“I miss you.”

“Was that so hard?” he whispers.

“Yes.”

“I think we only have a minute or two left.” He blows out a harsh breath, losing the delicacy. “There’s so much I want to tell you, June. I feel like I need a thousand hours to say it all.”

A warmth surges through my chest at the prospect.

“Three months and we get you back.”

“June.”

“Yeah?”

“We?”

“Fine…” I bite the inside of my lip, buying what little time I can. “Three months and I get you back.”

“Call you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Call you tomorrow.”

“Bye, June.”

“Goodbye, Lex.”

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Frances Luévano is a published contemporary writer and playwright based near the Rocky Mountains. She is an enthusiast of odd and forgotten things and enjoys indie films. When not in her creative nook, Frances can be found in Thai restaurants and craft stores.

Photo: kyryll ushakov