A brief moment to myself.
I called J last night just to hear her voice on the answering machine. You know perfectly well the scene: I’ve had too much to drink or maybe just enough to start thinking about the city. It started raining and, in a flash of ridiculously misplaced anger, I punched the wood paneled wall with my good hand, the hand on which the skin has yet to split, and to my surprise, I could have kept going. The skin would have held me together.
I’d know that voice anywhere. If I were asleep and she spoke in some other room, the sound would reverberate in my skull and I would dream of her face, our mismatched smiles in the mirror, brief glints of sunshine on the building across the way.
You haven’t changed. At least the recording of you hasn’t changed, the timbre of your voice the same as if we’d spoken just yesterday, or kissed at the bus stop for the first time, or you laid your hand on my leg as I spoke to my buddy Richard about music.
Nothing ever leaves us.