I miss him most in the nighttime, of course. That’s when he would call, for years, for years he would get up before dawn and call. It was always around midnight here. It was like lying next to him, like kissing him goodnight, our voices, our desires, dripping onto our pillows. Too often I stayed up too late, it seemed I was always exhausted at work. We were an addiction that neither could quit. Until he started tumbling, but really what does it matter when? Towards the end of the affair, he was getting up to call less and less. He asked me to call and wake him and he would call me back, and he never seemed to mind getting up, but maybe he was already up, maybe just finishing a conversation with one of his other ladies. I wonder what he and these women talk about? I wonder if they phone fuck like we did? We were very dirty and we were very hungry and the phone was no obstacle. I’ve seen pictures of some these women and know of their lifestyles and situations—I really don’t think he is doing to these women what he did to me, and I’m certain they could never play the whore as well as I did. But I’m a fool, and what do I know? Jesus. Over the moon and back over the phone.
photo credit: theodysseyonline.com