(no subject)
I’m sorry, but I couldn’t call. I tried, then I hung up when you said “hello?” I hadn’t planned on doing that, at least not consciously, but I freaked out when I heard your voice and it sounded exactly as I’d imagined. OK, not exactly, cause no matter how hard you try you can never really hear someone’s voice in your head. Even if you’ve known the person for a thousand years, there’s always something missing when you try to imagine him or her saying something. It's like we go through these dress rehearsels in our imagination, but instead of actors we've got a cast of poorly painted marionettes.
Someone needs to invent sex dolls with voice boxes and strings you could pull to flap their mouths open and shut, so they could whisper all the right things, the kinds of words we want so badly to hear.
“Hello?” There was emphasis on the question mark: it was vaguely mocking, serving to drive home the truth of my audaciousness. “Hello?" -- as in, "who the fuck do you think you are, calling me?”
As for me, I already explained how this is the thousandth time we’ve met. At least I'd gotten as far as writing about how I could already hear your voice in my head, like the soundtrack to a movie in my mind where I'm walking across the screen (hopefully a drive in movie screen, so I'll look like a giant!) and I (closeup) look up and see you (pan right!) standing on the curb, or leaning against a doorway with a scarf wrapped tightly around your face, so at first, I can't quite tell if its you (but really, I know!)
The wind blows. You’re looking out from under your bangs. I’m wearing my natty Stone Cold T-shirt and orange trenchcoat. The sun dips dramatically behind a cloud.
but not too dramatically, not to the point where it's stupid or lame.
We look each other in the eye. In that second, we meet in a strange halfway place, your eyes meeting mine like a cat's shining thru darkness, squinting, just about to leap, or the unblinking stare of a child.
You’re leering, beautifully. I feel like singing.
Maybe I hung up because in all my scenarios, I never thought your first words to me would be, “Hello”.
I always imagined you’d say, “It’s you.”
Someone needs to invent sex dolls with voice boxes and strings you could pull to flap their mouths open and shut, so they could whisper all the right things, the kinds of words we want so badly to hear.
“Hello?” There was emphasis on the question mark: it was vaguely mocking, serving to drive home the truth of my audaciousness. “Hello?" -- as in, "who the fuck do you think you are, calling me?”
As for me, I already explained how this is the thousandth time we’ve met. At least I'd gotten as far as writing about how I could already hear your voice in my head, like the soundtrack to a movie in my mind where I'm walking across the screen (hopefully a drive in movie screen, so I'll look like a giant!) and I (closeup) look up and see you (pan right!) standing on the curb, or leaning against a doorway with a scarf wrapped tightly around your face, so at first, I can't quite tell if its you (but really, I know!)
The wind blows. You’re looking out from under your bangs. I’m wearing my natty Stone Cold T-shirt and orange trenchcoat. The sun dips dramatically behind a cloud.
but not too dramatically, not to the point where it's stupid or lame.
We look each other in the eye. In that second, we meet in a strange halfway place, your eyes meeting mine like a cat's shining thru darkness, squinting, just about to leap, or the unblinking stare of a child.
You’re leering, beautifully. I feel like singing.
Maybe I hung up because in all my scenarios, I never thought your first words to me would be, “Hello”.
I always imagined you’d say, “It’s you.”