It’s such a dumb thing small thing. Right? I’m on the phone faking this guy out. Maybe some regular. He can’t know that I pick toe jam out my toenails in this warehouse with maroon cubicles with soft grannies & few students in swivel chairs. He’s just one more dumb small dud buying. Not touching. Just phone fucking me from a BBQ. Okay. It’s June outside. “What’s cooking?” I ask hungry. “Halibut,” he laughs, “What’s cooking with you?” I look around at the stale air. I’ve been losing weight the wrong way lately—without money. On my way in on my bike I saw a crowd at the bus stop & maybe no food made me think they swayed over some lady flat on her back on the sidewalk. Her fat feet in beige pumps stuck out over the curb. “That food sounds good. You should get some,” I say picking fresh pimples & blotting puss with my sleeve. “Forget that,” he says & we chat about what we’d do but like kids do: “Let’s pretend you do this. & then I do that.” Okay. Sometimes it doesn’t work like when kids say, “You’re dead!” & you say, “No I’m not!” But who decides? & this is what I want to know when I start hearing the BBQ. Kids closing in. Kids fading like running around. I hear a woman’s question. “Flowers,” she says. There’s his muffling hand his slick whisper like a shrug or dad or door clicking. Then nothing. “Oooo-kaaaay,” he says like he’s my boyfriend’s pal Trey who tells everyone I call him—chat hot when I don’t. Would never. He’s all “Oooo-kaaaay” the way he wasn’t with Ms. Flowers. & I drop the receiver. Stop my desktop solitaire game. ‘Cause I’m sick & froze & there’s a kind of life behind his voice. & it’s touching me.
Click here to read Jennifer Jean on the writing of this poem:
Image: “Lonely Phone” by Sarah Laval, licensed under CC 2.0
