Waiting

The phone rings only as often as you ask it to, I thought, eyes on my cell. Ten sentences, chopped, were all I could manage. My worlds and words mangled without the phone call. The same ten sentences circling in my head, the answerless worries. I spun the cell, round and round, on the table, spinning like the idea of a call spun me. I’d tell you what those sentences were, but the words disintegrated further each time, giving meaning to the phrase, distant memories. Each word slipped into my past, a moment that blended with the need for the call, a lost word that couldn’t be turned into an answer, when, if, it finally rang. I’d be rendered into two simple answers, yes and no, the only recourse I’d have by the time the cell buzzed. I stared and spun.