The phone was ringing and I waited for it to stop.

I wanted to ask him how he got my number. Who did he think he was, calling me like this after basically disappearing? What the hell he wanted to prove by inserting himself into my space? Why did he imagine that I would have anything, anything, anything at all to say to him, after—but I didn’t.

CALL NOTES BY TRACE SHERIDAN 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 02

The phone was ringing and I waited for it to stop.

Whenever it rang early in the morning or late at night an anxious feeling rose into my throat and lingered there.

I knew that after four or five rings the call notes would pick up and my voice would graciously ask for the caller to leave their name, number, and a brief message. My recorded voice would promise to return their call as soon as possible, but I knew as well as everyone who called that this was a lie.

Whoever they were, they were persistent. I stared at the phone in disbelief as it started to ring again. Clumsily, I crossed the floor, stumbled over a stack of books and missing Homer’s tail by inches, I snatched the cordless from the receiver.

Hello, I said.

Hello—Zoë, a man said tentatively. It’s Parker, he said as if I wouldn’t recognize his voice.

Parker. I glanced at my flushed reflection in the silver-framed mirror across the room. Parker, I repeated. So…

I let my voice trail off. So, he joined in, how have you been?

I wanted to ask him how he got my number. Who did he think he was, calling me like this after basically disappearing? What the hell he wanted to prove by inserting himself into my space? Why did he imagine that I would have anything, anything, anything at all to say to him, after—but I didn’t.