Phone in hand, she dials with her thumb. It is a number that has traveled from a dog-eared phone diary, to an organizer, several internet address books, an online contacts list and a couple of mobile phones.
As the number dials, she thinks back to the last time they spoke, her mind’s eye showing her the pages of a calendar flipping, instead of the hands of a clock. Ah, yes, she pauses at a memory. And then the calendar turns again. Oh, yes, that too. More flipping…
Trrring…
Hi!
What’s happening?
Not much. You?
I’m at work. Talk to you another time
Sure. Bye.
Just a casual call, wasn’t this? Or did you need to talk about something?
No worries. You run along.
She smiles to herself. Sometimes you need to dial a number just to hear the call being answered. She snaps her flip-top shut and tosses it into her bag. Knowing they won’t talk again for awhile. Hoping they won’t. An occasional impulse may be indulgence, more often would be neediness. On her part would be mortifying shame, on his would be dismal disappointment.
What, she wonders, would I call him? Something other than a lover, someone not quite a friend and yet…definitely not a stranger. One of my own.
Friend-lover. She stops, lips smile-tinged, remembering. A title that someone once tried to confer on her and she cut that thought to shreds. But stored away the thought in her mind if she ever needed it. Noted for future reference. Neatly filed away as always. Now she pulls it out, finding a use for it and she knows it fits. Perfect, no one else could be described quite this way. That crazy dance on the fine dotted line between scorching sexuality and prudish platonicity. She smirks…if we ever danced baby, it would only be the salsa.
It works because there’s just enough on each side and we always stay on the dotted line. It works as long as we stay on the dotted line. Life on either side is just the way it always is. But the dotted line makes it different. Special? Who cares? The dotted line justifies its own presence. Connections that could be made. A series of blanks. Whichever way I want to look at it.
Some things are not meant to be. And then some things are meant to be…flexible.
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Posted in Storybook, Voicebox | Comments (9)
July 5th, 2007 at 5:35 pm
nothing lasts forever even cold November rain….some things are flexible bur more of perception oriented, perception of those two people, which makes hell lot of difference! & finally after the dotted line is crossed, someone has to be at the receiving end
July 5th, 2007 at 8:08 pm
This is as if I could have written it, except you wrote it so very eloquently!
I agree with Ashish also, someone usually is at the receiving end when the line is crossed, and it really sucks!
July 5th, 2007 at 10:59 pm
That was lovely.
July 5th, 2007 at 11:25 pm
Thank god I am not alone!:)
July 6th, 2007 at 8:58 am
What’s on my mind is on your blog. And this is not the first time.
July 6th, 2007 at 10:47 am
@ Ashish: With some people, you don’t think too much, just live the moment. That is probably the ideal way to live every moment, only with some people it is effortless.
@ Menagerie: That’s if the line is crossed. But the hint of danger is what makes the line so exciting. Sort of like the risk of falling off is what makes walking the tightrope so appealing.
@ Anon: You never are.
@ Fullmoononearth: :-)I love your name. And oh…this is whacky but your comment made me think of the ‘Tamarind shirts’ ad!
July 6th, 2007 at 12:25 pm
“she cut that thought to shreds. But stored away the thought in her mind if she ever needed it”
Well so many of us do this right, I always had this on back of my mind, but never put it across as neat as this.
well I dont think there was anything wrong in whatever “she” did
July 7th, 2007 at 8:05 pm
“…if we ever danced baby, it would only be the salsa.”
Oo yummy!
July 7th, 2007 at 11:45 pm
@ Rambler, Chronicus Skepticus: