The phone shivered with its first tentative ring, then erupted into a relentless, shrill trill. Again?
The sound sliced the silence of the flat like broken glass. Simon shut his eyes. It was her the name that belongs in every romance novel Evelyn. Hed only met her a couple of times, and in a moment of foolish weakness theyd swapped numbers. Who else could be calling? Lately no one had called him at all. It was as if the world had erased him from its contact list, leaving him alone with that insistent melody and his own thoughts.
He pressed his forehead into the mattress, trying to drown out the maddening noise. He wanted to fling the handset out the window, smash it on the pavement until only a heap of glass and plastic remained. If he couldnt fix his life, he could at least destroy the thing that tethered him to the outside world.
But the phone would not quit.
Simon thrust himself up and stalked toward the source of the sound. The device seemed to sense his approach, ringing even louder, as if daring him: Come on, pick up! And, obeying some ancient reflex, he answered.
Hello?
Its me! a bright, carefree voice cut through the air, its lightness almost rude. Why did it take you so long?
Im busy, Simon muttered.
Then why did you pick up? Evelyn asked, a sly smile clearly playing on her lips.
Because my nerves arent steel! he snapped, his voice a low growl. Whats there to be angry about? Youre driving me mad with these calls!
I can feel youre at home that youre not well, she said.
And what else do you feel? his reply dripped with venomous sarcasm.
That you were waiting for my call.
Me? Waiting?! he snorted.
He wanted to slam the handset down, curse her with every foul word he knew. Those three weeks of daily calls had landed at the very bottom of his existence, a period when nothing appealed to him: work, idleness, food, drink. All he wanted was to disappear, to evaporate, to cease being a speck in the grinding, indifferent meatmachine of life.
Listen, his voice suddenly fell, flat and exhausted. What do you want from me?
Silence stretched on the line.
Nothing. I think you need help.
Dont speak for me. I dont need your help. Not at all.
But I feel it!
Then stop feeling! He snapped, his patience snapped like a brittle twig. Who do you think you are, a saint, a saviour of lost souls? Go help old ladies cross the road, feed stray cats. And leave me alone. Got it?
The quiet in the receiver grew thick, heavy. Then a few short beeps, and she hung up.
Great, Simon thought, shes stuck her nose where she isnt wanted.
That day no one called again. The next day, either. Evelyn didnt ring after a day, a week not at all.
The silence he had craved suddenly pressed against his ears, a ringing, absolute, unbearable quiet. There was no salvation in it, only isolation. Simon caught himself in the evenings lingering over the phone, waiting. A foolish, humiliating hope grew inside him: maybe now maybe soon
He stopped stepping out at night, terrified of missing a possible call. What if she calls and I dont hear? Shell think Im ignoring her, be offended forever. The word forever frightened him more than the barking stray dogs that seemed to sniff out his vulnerability.
Soon another torment arriveda need to unload the black, sticky mass roiling inside. But to whom? A neighbour? He lived a simple life of wages, football and women, a happy chap.
So Simon began talking to himself, aloud, in the empty flat. His voice sounded hollow and unnatural.
Why isnt she calling? he asked his reflection in the dark window.
Because you pushed her away, bluntly and without ceremony.
But she called every day! Relentlessly! So she must have cared, right?
You told her her involvement wasnt needed. You shoved away the hand that reached for you in your darkest hour.
He argued, defended, raged at himself. In the end his inner voice his own I won. It forced him to admit the cold, terrifying truth: those calls were his lifeline, a breath of air for a man drowning, proof that he still mattered to someone, that he wasnt a ghost.
Evelyn didnt call.
Simon spent evenings staring at the phone, the whole inside collapsing into a single, mute scream. Please just call he whispered.
The phone stayed mute.
He collapsed onto his bed well past midnight, never seeing a miracle. He slipped into a restless, jittery sleep, and in the halfdream he thought he heard that same ring.
He snapped awake. He hadnt been sleeping. The phone was ringing real, urgent, alive. He lunged for the handset.
Hello? his voice trembled.
Hi, came the familiar, now slightly distant voice. Did you call me?
Simon closed his eyes. A smile crept across his face, the first genuine one in weeks bitter, weary, but reliefladen.
Yes, he exhaled. I think I did.
A pause followed, not the heavy, accusing one of before, but a taut, alive stretch, like a string ready to vibrate. He could hear her soft, even breathing, and his own heart thudding unevenly.
I, he stammered, searching for words that werent excuses or fresh barbs just truth. I sat and waited. Every night.
I knew, she replied, quiet yet firm, without a hint of triumph. I was also struggling. But I decided I couldnt be the one to call first any more. That had to be your decision.
He imagined her, perhaps also holding a phone, wrestling with the urge to dial his number. The picture struck him as profoundly moving.
Sorry, he said, the hardest word to form, hot as a coal in his throat, but necessary. For being such a jerk.
Its forgiven, her voice softened with a faint smile. Although, I almost broke the kettle in my frustration.
He laughed, a short, relieved chuckle. The mundane detail a kettle snapped him back to reality.
Is he okay? he asked, finally serious.
Yes. Ill keep him safe as if he were my own eye.
Silence fell again, but now it was shared. They listened together.
Simon her tone grew serious. Whats really happening?
Before, that question would have ignited his fury. Now it felt like a weak ache, a yearning to finally speak out.
Everything, he said, sliding down onto the floor, his back against the sofa. Work has become a nightmare. Debts have snowballed. I feel like Im teetering on a cliffs edge, about to tumble. And theres this hollow emptiness, as if Ive burnt out from the inside. I want nothing no food, no company.
He talked at length, rambling, fragmented, not crying, just stating facts like a doctor delivering a diagnosis. For the first time in months, someone actually listened without interrupting, without offering platitudes or pull yourself together. Just listening.
When he fell silent, only her breathing filled the line.
Thank you, Evelyn finally said. For saying that.
Now you see why I wasnt myself? he replied, a bitter smile playing on his lips.
I do. Its no excuse for my rudeness, she answered, her tone firm again. But now I know what Im dealing with. Thats better than guessing.
What will you do about it? he asked, curiosity flickering.
For starters, she said decisively, go to the kitchen and put the kettle on. While it boils, open a window, even just for five minutes. Fresh air does wonders for the brain, and you seem starved for it.
Simon obeyed, rising from the floor.
Im going, he said.
Good, she replied. While you do that, Ill stay on the other end. Then well sort out work, the debts, that abyss youre staring into.
There was no pity in her voice, no babytalk. It was confidence, solid as rock, and in that confidence lay the strength he had been lacking.
He shuffled to the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, fumbled with the kettle, wrestled with a stubborn window, and let in a draft scented with rain and city streets. He took those first small steps forward toward life.
And he understood this was only the beginning of a long, hard conversation, perhaps even a meeting. But for the first time in ages he didnt feel alone in his crumbling tower. A hand was reaching in from outside, and he was finally ready to take it.
