✆ CALL | 6.31 PM falsitiesOctober 17 2011, 20:30:16 UTC
[ From his bedroom, Francis can still hear Sal and Vic laughing over the buzz of the TV. It's white noise that he's learned to live with, even if he isn't entirely happy with it (not now, not ever). It's just another stain on the wall, albeit one that grows day by day. When the phone rings, it's a welcome respite. (He wonders if they register the sound at all.)
Four, five rings go by before the other end of the line picks up. ]
✆ CALL | 6.31 PM tournoieOctober 17 2011, 20:37:36 UTC
[ There's a knot in her chest (this never changes and never will) and the longer the phone rings, the tighter it winds. Tighter and tighter - an anxiety, a disappointment threatening to happen - until suddenly it releases (not free, but loose; a temporary reprieve). Phillipa does't realize she'd been holding her breath until she lets it go. To Francis it sounds like a little cough. ]
Francis, hi. It's me, it's Phillipa, I'm not- [ She catches herself before she apologizes for something she's not even sure she's done yet. ] I mean-hi.
✆ CALL | 6.31 PM falsitiesOctober 17 2011, 20:45:54 UTC
Oh. [ It's said in surprise, not in disappointment. ]
Hi.
[ Another beat. Clicking noises from his end of the line, as he unhooks the phone from the wall and starts to bring it out onto the stairwell behind the apartment building. Sal and Vic can be heard in the background just a moment longer - then the opening and shutting of a door, and there's silence.
Slowly, as if unsure of what is and isn't expected in a phone conversation: ] How are you?
✆ CALL | 6.32 PM tournoieOctober 17 2011, 20:53:42 UTC
Good. [ It's not a lie, not a politeness (which is all it is sometimes). ] I'm good. Juries are over and they seemed to like my stuff, so. [ There's a rustling, the sound of restlessness and disquiet, as Phillipa turns the page of the notebook in her lap and begins to sketch again. Dark shapes like sunken eyes hidden by shadow; sullen things. It makes for an odd juxtaposition to the bright hopefulness of her voice.
Phillipa laughs once, nervously.
(I want to see you again. I've been thinking about you. I miss you. I want you. That's wrong, isn't it? ] So I thought I'd call to see how you were. How your mom is doing. Y'know - catch up.
[ It hasn't been very long, maybe a week since they last spoke, but Phillpa's felt the days pass pointedly. More pointedly than she thinks they should. ]
✆ CALL | 6.32 PM falsitiesOctober 17 2011, 21:37:14 UTC
Thanks. [ Again, it's not a lie, not a politeness (he never learned how to properly use either). ]
My mother is - fine. She's f-fine. [ That's the best way Francis can think of putting it, anyway. He pauses for a moment before sitting down on the landing, feet on the first step below him, his side pressed to the fence.
It's not nerves that plague him, not really. This is the calm before the storm, not that he knows it; the few moments that he'll be able to take solace just in talking to her. She's bright. Brighter than the miserable apartment that he calls home and brighter than anything he can really remember. Bright, and not malevolent. (Not yet.) ]
I've been okay. [ There's been nothing new, he means. He's never been okay, but that is the status quo. ]
✆ CALL | 6.33 PM tournoieOctober 17 2011, 22:03:41 UTC
That makes two of us, then. [ The scritch of sharpened lead against paper. There's a rhythm to it, like a meditation. (Like she's excorsising demons and maybe she is.) ] Three if you count my dad.
[ Then, absently, as if only to herself: ] He worries. All the time.
[ And, in truth, he should. A mother lost to limbo, a father dogged by guilt - and both parents far too selfish in their own ways to forfeit more than what could already be spared. What else was Phillipa expected to inherit, beyond the burden of their own mistakes and a dangerous touch of inspiration.
There's a face emerging from the black of the page. Stately and beautiful and haunting. Phillipa flips the notebook over to smother those empty eyes and starts again, but not before admitting: ] I was thinking of you.
Reply
Four, five rings go by before the other end of the line picks up. ]
- Hello?
Reply
Francis, hi. It's me, it's Phillipa, I'm not- [ She catches herself before she apologizes for something she's not even sure she's done yet. ] I mean-hi.
Reply
Hi.
[ Another beat. Clicking noises from his end of the line, as he unhooks the phone from the wall and starts to bring it out onto the stairwell behind the apartment building. Sal and Vic can be heard in the background just a moment longer - then the opening and shutting of a door, and there's silence.
Slowly, as if unsure of what is and isn't expected in a phone conversation: ] How are you?
Reply
Phillipa laughs once, nervously.
(I want to see you again. I've been thinking about you. I miss you. I want you. That's wrong, isn't it? ] So I thought I'd call to see how you were. How your mom is doing. Y'know - catch up.
[ It hasn't been very long, maybe a week since they last spoke, but Phillpa's felt the days pass pointedly. More pointedly than she thinks they should. ]
Reply
My mother is - fine. She's f-fine. [ That's the best way Francis can think of putting it, anyway. He pauses for a moment before sitting down on the landing, feet on the first step below him, his side pressed to the fence.
It's not nerves that plague him, not really. This is the calm before the storm, not that he knows it; the few moments that he'll be able to take solace just in talking to her. She's bright. Brighter than the miserable apartment that he calls home and brighter than anything he can really remember. Bright, and not malevolent. (Not yet.) ]
I've been okay. [ There's been nothing new, he means. He's never been okay, but that is the status quo. ]
I'm glad th- I'm glad juries went well.
Reply
[ Then, absently, as if only to herself: ] He worries. All the time.
[ And, in truth, he should. A mother lost to limbo, a father dogged by guilt - and both parents far too selfish in their own ways to forfeit more than what could already be spared. What else was Phillipa expected to inherit, beyond the burden of their own mistakes and a dangerous touch of inspiration.
There's a face emerging from the black of the page. Stately and beautiful and haunting. Phillipa flips the notebook over to smother those empty eyes and starts again, but not before admitting: ] I was thinking of you.
[ (That's alright, isn't it?) ]
Reply
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