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Friday, August 23, 2013

Fast, awesome flash fiction up for the weekend. This concise little piece is one of my favorites. 

Welcome to my world.

Enjoy. 



Drunk Dial


He mumbles. Nothing coherent. Just things he didn’t say way back when. When I was the one. It’s a kind of therapy. Cheaper than the real stuff. Talking to someone’s voice mail at 3 AM after six pints of beer has a bit of boldness in it. Kind of. I admire his long, candid sighs. It doesn’t erase the fact that he’s married. It doesn’t erase the fact that he’s on the other side of the country staring at sext messages wondering how he ever let me go. Tonight he is nostalgic, talking about a night at the Antenna Club. A night that plays over and over in both our minds like a broken record, a CD skipping. There is no digital comparison I can make. Our feelings are not ipod friendly. Technology has smoothed the edges. Simplified our affections. The past skips like a broken record. Still, I listen to the message. Twice. Save it. I’ve never phoned him drunk. The wife, you understand. My exchanges with him are a naked homage to the dumb teenagers we still are. Sometimes I get a little dizzy hearing his voice. It happens. Some days I even welcome such silliness. Tonight he is asking me if I’ll always be there for him. Like an anchor. Yet we drift out into the sea of his heartbreak. I don’t answer at 3 AM. It rings and he leaves a message. If I answered, that long scratch of broken record would return to the song and while I hum the tune of him and me for days on end, I constantly forget the words.





 Copyright 2013 Lis Anna
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