A short note: I originally thought that Phone Booth took place in the late spring to early summer; after watching the DVD (yay! *rejoices*), I found out that it was actually filmed close to wintertime. So I've adjusted the timeframe for it to start approximately three weeks before the movie (right now, it's about a week before Stu appears on the scene), and I've changed the rating because it's about to get pretty nasty.

A big hug and kiss for Lea, who's in London and (I hope) having a blast; Lea--I stole the Kiefer from cinesister while she was hiding him under her bed, and I'm willing to share ;-)

***

I'm outside early the next day. The rifle is stashed in a corner of my apartment, and my hands are fumbling around nervously in my pockets. I scuffle my feet, kick around a few loose pebbles, and wipe my glasses clean as I wait for Kate.

The minutes have never seemed so long before. Each one feels like it's a tired, slow, shuffling thing, worn out and weary as it limps by. I flex my fingers nervously, taking short breaths and biting my lip; I push my sleeve up to check my watch and growl in exasperation. I can't believe it's only been fifteen minutes since I got out here.

"Hey." I look around, startled, and see Steve approaching with a dirty glare in his eyes. "Get out of here, I need to use the phone."

If only I had the rifle... my fingers are itching to curve tightly around the trigger, to press the cold barrel to his shiny, sweaty forehead. "Good for you," I reply sarcastically.

"Don't play games with me, pal," he snarls. His voice, which oozed like oily, greasy slime when he addressed Kate, is rough with brute violence now. "It's a free country, I got a right to use the booth. You going to move or what?"

I shift away, but not before staring him straight in the eyes. "My patience with you is wearing thin," I say coldly, clearly, cutting through the air. "Don't make me lose my temper."

"I'm so scared," he sneers mockingly, but there's a sudden wariness in his eyes as he slams the door shut. I turn my back on him and lean against the stone wall, scanning the street for any sign of Kate.

It's four o'clock. She's usually a few minutes early, give or take. She should be here by now.

Where is she?

***

She didn't show up.

I waited for an hour outside before storming off, cursing under my breath. I could see Steve smirking smugly at me as I charged across the street, barging past people and hurtling into the apartment building. I didn't stop until I flung myself down on the couch and tossed my glasses across the room. They collided with the kitchen table and fell to the floor with a loud rattle and clink.

I lay back against the cushions, blowing out a long sigh. Maybe she was sick, or was held up, or... or maybe she wanted to call it all off because I frightened her, or...

No. Kate wouldn't do that. If she wanted to leave, she'd tell me so face to face. It's a strange thing for me, to trust someone this completely, and it makes me nervous and deeply calm at the same time.

So why didn't she come?

I spent a sleepless night staring at the wall and stumbled around with stinging, bleary eyes the next morning. I spent most of the day pacing nervously, occasionally taking my rifle out and inspecting it.

Now I'm hovering around outside again, even more edgy and tense than before. Steve arrives like clockwork, swaggering by with a cocky leer as he slides into the booth. I'm sorely tempted to just smash the glass in and slam him against the metal frame, but I hold myself back.

Four o'clock slips past, and Kate is not here.

Steve hangs up the receiver with a loud click and steps out, swinging the door shut. "Where's your pretty girlfriend?" he simpers at me.

"None of your business."

"You know, I bet she's really easy--homeless girls always are, half of them are hookers anyway--"

He breaks off with a choked gurgle. I've got him pinned up against the wall with one hand clutching his throat. He gags, clawing frantically at my arm, but I tighten my grip until he gasps and wheezes. Leaning in, I say ever so softly, "Don't push me any further. I'm not the kind of person you want to get angry."

He shrinks away from my glare, his eyes wide, his lips trembling, and lets out a feeble moan as I release him. He slinks away rubbing his bruised throat with a shaking hand, but stops at the corner and wheels around, grunting out: "You're going to regret this, you bastard. I'm going to make you pay. She's not going to be around for much longer."

He stumbles off. I stare blankly after him for two moments before it clicks, and then I'm swearing viciously and dashing after him. But by the time I skid to a halt at the corner, he's gone.

***