It occurs to me that I can't recall how you sound, the voice that crept over me for so long. And we have all these great analogies and images for how it's like watching a silent movie, or hitting the mute button on the remote, but it's a little more eerie than that, I think. It seems that - with the absence of subtitles in my memories - the words are preserved, but given breath by other voices. So I suppose we can modify that metaphor a bit. We can call it a dubbed film.
Is it a big deal? Probably not. I tend to shy away from the phone anyway, and at this point, both of us having taken flight to opposite ends of the continent, drawing open like curtains the vast expanse of land in between us, there is little chance of actual contact. We would have nothing to say to each other.
It's bad enough for me having to call customers while I am at work, and I spend most of the time hoping that they won't pick up, allowing me to leave a message wherein I will trip over the same inevitable consonant clusters. And for all the typos I ignore in text messaging, as I spread grease all around the tiny illuminated keys on my phone, no one is expecting more than a few words. No one is really expecting my voice.
So maybe you don't remember what I sound like either. We could have an anonymous phone conversation from two pay phones, and talk about all the things that have been going on, and we can imagine the voices and stories coming from the mouths of strangers. If we could free ourselves from memories.
My phone rings, and I scramble as I always do to pick it up.
She's calling me back!
I answer the phone, my tongue ready to walk a tightrope of the right steps and sounds. For a moment I can almost recall your voice as she says my name, but as she continues speaking, the memory recedes back to being nothing more than an unplaceable humming along to this new refrain.
Is it a big deal? Probably not. I tend to shy away from the phone anyway, and at this point, both of us having taken flight to opposite ends of the continent, drawing open like curtains the vast expanse of land in between us, there is little chance of actual contact. We would have nothing to say to each other.
It's bad enough for me having to call customers while I am at work, and I spend most of the time hoping that they won't pick up, allowing me to leave a message wherein I will trip over the same inevitable consonant clusters. And for all the typos I ignore in text messaging, as I spread grease all around the tiny illuminated keys on my phone, no one is expecting more than a few words. No one is really expecting my voice.
So maybe you don't remember what I sound like either. We could have an anonymous phone conversation from two pay phones, and talk about all the things that have been going on, and we can imagine the voices and stories coming from the mouths of strangers. If we could free ourselves from memories.
My phone rings, and I scramble as I always do to pick it up.
She's calling me back!
I answer the phone, my tongue ready to walk a tightrope of the right steps and sounds. For a moment I can almost recall your voice as she says my name, but as she continues speaking, the memory recedes back to being nothing more than an unplaceable humming along to this new refrain.
