He falls asleep to the sound of Louise's soothing, rhythmic voice, one that has become the sweetest of lullabies since he entered this siren wailing, car filled city. Telephone receiver crushed between his ear and shoulder, he slumps on a patched up arm chair, lazily patting off the brick dust caked onto his leather-like palms. A small smile twinges on his bristled chin when she groans about Tina's baby craze over her newborn, and he feels an immediate spark of joy over his role as a counselor to him.
The glow of a nearby lamp, the soothing of his once aching muscles, the cradling of cushions beneath him, the melodic voice….eventually he's no longer in a dim, cluttered apartment: a kingdom of stacked books, decrepit furniture, and mold growing in the grooves of tiles. He's in his bed - his real bed, the cozy basement beneath Bob's Burgers, where wafts of savoury aromas seep into the room - Louise beside his side, hands roaming her soft curves, lingering on the marked, flabby areas that she so secretly loathes, prompting a smile, bashful smile to strike across her lips. There are tinkling giggles and peppered kisses and fluttering butterflies within their tummies, which so ecstatically flap about when Louise's sturdy hands slide down his abdomen, running through the dark hair beneath his navel, causing his breath to hitch - a gasp of air felt by the raw, ragged lips pressed up to his. And then he lunges, pushing her neck back, stretching out her jaw, rugged palms smoothing out her rib cage, tongue slipping against hers. He's growing breathless and numb, hands tingling like ringing copper bells, skin beginning to sear from the kisses studded upon it. He can feel himself losing control, becoming rushed, and desperate, and sloppy, and-
Logan's startled awake by the his mother's clattering of aging pans, and a scalding excretion in his jeans. He fumbles about, nearly slipping out of the armchair - it's aging fabric giving his spine a carpet burn, the phone falling from the crook of his neck and plummeting to the floor with an eerie ring. Once securely perched, he exhales a long, exasperated sigh, running a hand through his messy hair, earning him a mischievous gaze from his mother as she lights the stove.
"You were saying your girlfriend's name with such longing…." She giggles, before returning to her cooking with a cocky grin. Logan only chuckles with a breathy, nervous air, before looking at the telephone - now perched back on it's morrocan night stand.
Rays of bleached light illuminate the phones pristine, smooth texture - highlighting it's polished curves and chunky figure. He then realizes, with a heart skipping panic, that he fell asleep while Louise was speaking.
Soon after, their phone calls dwindle out, and Logan will recall this with a startling panic. One that sends his aching bones running to the phone - stale, shag carpet tickling his bare feet, to ring her up and rasp out a slew of apologies and declarations of love. But then a frigid reality drenches him as soon as his fingers curl around the coal colored handset.
She's still fast asleep. She's too busy to call him. She's too in pain to bear communication. There are a thousand reasons why he should not call her that Logan can think of, but the most menacing one is "she doesn't want to speak to him anymore". And that possibility drives him to spend long, sunset tinted afternoons perched on the armchair, intensely studying the rotary's carved shape, and fearing all the paranoia swarming within his cranium.