It sat where it always did, by the lamp in the corner of the TV-room/library. It was a new model, but I still wanted to trace that old pattern on it: 723-5288.
That was E's number, and coming into the house on Bradley Boulevard in Bethesda, it seemed wild with possibility. A re-connection with her and all my friends, especially in college and immediately thereafter. The phone was a portal that transported me away from Princeton and to the new and better life I had created in DC at the time.
I just called it. The number, said the mechanical voice on the phone, has been disconnected.
That could be the title of my memoirs of the hellish years that have passed like a rushing river since the early 1990s. I am a Dorian Gray that, instead of exploiting my static age, has been ravaged by it. I am starting to grow some gray in my now dark blond/light brown hair.
It should be shock white.
1 comment:
And who might you be, a dead German Sufi Mystic scholar? Great sarcastically or actually? Hmm, puzzling.
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