We had had our moments. Those little moments in romance movies where they'd laugh and cry together. We had those. Maybe not all of them were so beautiful, but they were ours. Emphasis on ours. Not mine. Not hers. Ours. As in more than one supporting side.

We had even watched old 50s movies together just to remind ourselves that something true and seemingly real existed back then but had now since died out.

So I had thought about adding fire the flame. She had long since been gone. But who could judge me.

Deciding that the damage had been done and everything had been pricked, poked, and stabbed, I picked up the phone with the same courage I had begun with and dialed seven familiar numbers.

On the fourth digit, I hesitated and let the phone hit the floor. Again.

Oh, but I was getting closer. Last time I had left off somewhere along the second or third. I wasn't quite sure on what it was I was making progress on though. Either it was the particular task of sewing my soul back together or ravishing it again.

Whichever it was, I had still kept it close and I had this awful need to feed to it.

They'd all call me obsessed. Crazy. Too blind to see that the door had shut and the blinds were firmly set. But who was I to say that I should stop?

And so it went on like this, shutting the door behind me, turning off the lights, cradling the phone and sitting there in the crude silence, thinking about what tomorrow would be like. If I'd get past my phone endeavors and finally be able to hear her voice again.