Ring, Goddamn You

The phone doesn’t ring.

It sits there, like some kind of, stupid, fucking phone.  No matter how hard I think at it, it doesn’t burst into flames or explode.  Or ring.

Fucking phone.

I make myself a pot of tea.  I watch some television.  I meander about the internet, pretending I’m finding distractions but secretly searching for information, for some kind of sign, nestled in the data, of what the hell is going on.

Then it does ring, and I pick it up, palms slick, fumble with the buttons.  It’s my mom, asking if we have milk.

Stupid goddamn phone.

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