Hear the Wind Sing

18

The phone rang.

I was lying atop a wicker chair, half-asleep while gazing at a book I’d left open. The sudden evening rainstorm was comprised of big drops of water that wet the leaves of the trees in the yard before it passed. After the rainstorm was gone, the sea-smelling southerly wind began to blow, shaking the leaves of the potted plants on the veranda just a little, then went on to shake the curtains.

“Hello,” she said. Her voice was dark and controlled; she spoke as if her words were settling on a thin glass table. “You remember me?”

I pretended to think about it for a minute.

“How’s the record business?”

“Not so good…it’s like there’s a recession or something. Nobody’s listening to records.”

“Uh huh.”

She tap-taped her nail on the receiver.

“It was really hard work getting your phone number.”

“Yeah?”

“I asked around at J’s Bar. I had the bartender ask your friend for me. A real tall, weird guy. He was reading Moliere.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.”

Silence.

“Everyone looked sad. You didn’t show up there for a week, so they were saying you must be sick or something.”

“I never knew I was so popular.”

“Are you….mad at me?”

“For what?”

“For saying all those terrible things to you. I wanted to apologize for that.”

“Hey, you don’t have to worry about me. You care about me, you might as well be feeding beans to pigeons.”

She sighed, and I could hear the flicker from her cigarette lighter coming through the receiver. After that, I could hear Bob Dylan’s Nashville Skyline. She must’ve been calling from the record store.

“I’m not really worried about your feelings. I just feel like I shouldn’t have talked to you like that,” she said quickly.

“You’re pretty hard on yourself.”

“Yeah, I’m always thinking about the kind of person I’m trying to be.”

She was silent for a moment.

“You wanna meet up tonight?”

“Sure.”

“How about 8 o’ clock at J’s Bar. That okay?”

“Got it.”

“…um, I’ve been having a rough time lately.”

“I understand.”

“Thank you.”

She hung up.