Every room has a phone, even the bathroom. Not because I'm on some Mario Puzo-inspired fit of delusions of grandeur, but because wherever I am when she calls, I want to sink down slowly on the house's ubiquitous cushions (or onto the porcelain seat, if it should happen so) and hear her calm, measured tones--the rising and falling of her inflection--the soft comfort of her breathing. Somehow, it's almost sacrilege to speak back--my voice is the interloper in the priest's most solemn prayer--but I speak, because I cannot help but cry out in sheer joy at her presence. Hours upon hours we talk there in those darkened rooms, connected only by the grace of AT&T. That is when I am truly most alive, when I hear that chorus of phones signalling her arrival.
This nodeshell rescued on a dare | 
