RRRiiiinnng!
Answer it.
RRRiiiinnng!
You know you want to. Strike that--have to.
RRRiiiinnng!
Stop staring at it. Just stretch out your arm and pick up the receiver.
RRRiiinng!
Listen to it taunting you, knowing that you don't have the nerve to answer.
RRRii--
Utter silence. You didn't answer it.
A satin pillow clutched to your chest, hot forehead cooled by a breeze swirling into the room.
Next time you'll answer it. You've got to.
Because next time it could be him.
When the telephone rings, hopes always build up within the same chest pressed to the satin pillow. But you're afraid of their crumpling into nothing but despair once you answer. Still you await the call, thrilling, terrifying, vital...impossible?
No, not impossible. Else, why do you wait for his call?
Next time, you could pick up the phone and hear his baritone. Silky and inviting, confessing overwhelming desire. So very familiar to your own heart.
But you can only know if you answer the phone.
Or better yet, dial his number.