Calling Boys

It’s traumatic. It really is. Of course so is answering the phone when he calls, so I usually screen it and let my voicemail do its job. But, then I need to call back. The latest Romeo called on Saturday, I called back on Monday afternoon. I pray for his voicemail.
Ring. (don’t answer, please don’t answer. It’s four o’clock. who answers their cell at four o’clock?)
Ring. (okay, halfway there. two more rings. don’t answer don’t answer don’t answer)
Ring. (Safe? no, wait, don’t get cocky. the third ring is a dangerous ring. you think you’re safe and then blamo! out of nowhere)
Ring. (thank god, sigh of relief, prepare for voicemail)
“Hello?”
(fuck)
“Hi, Steve?”
“Yes” (shit, he sounds unsure)
“This is Kelly. Last name. Joel and Michelle’s friend. From Friday night.” (Am I saying this? Are all of these words coming out of my mouth? All at once? shut up Shut Up SHUT UP!)
He rescues me by saying, “Hello, Kelly.”
And of course he’s in the basement of some chamber miles below the surface of the sea and I can hardly hear him. A few minutes of spliced conversation later he cuts out.
Do I call him back? Nah, I’ll text him. So I do. Then he calls again.

Now I need to start all over.