When I walked into the living room, the new phone machine seemed to be suffering from epilepsy of the LED. The new machine is supposed to blink once for each message recorded, but I found it hard to believe that there could have been so many calls in just a few hours.
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D——? A meeting at a hotel? This morning? Babe? Dude? A wave of panic swept over me: Had I forgotten an appointment? Did I even know a D——? And why was she calling me “dude,” anyway? My name may sound masculine, but I am in fact a female. It says so right on my driver’s license. In a moment, I was reassured: this was a simple case of mistaken identity. She was looking for someone else, a male Bryan (or Brian?) Miller.
Deedeldeedeldeet. “H’lo. Talk to you later,” said my husband’s voice.
“10:05 AM, line one.”
“10:40 AM, line one.”
“11:20 AM, line one,” agreed the machine.
Deedeldeedeldeet. I sighed. Was this message number 12, finally, please? “Uh, hi, Bryan. It’s D——.” No. Really. “Look, uh, I–I’m sorry about the things I said just now. I, I didn’t mean them–I mean, you could have been in a car accident, or your mother could have gotten sick, or something, I know, OK?… Look, call me, OK? I have to make these other calls or I could lose my job, and then I have to go straight to the airport and I won’t get home till real late. I’ll be home tomorrow night–maybe you lost the number”–she gave a number with an east coast area code–“so call, please? You can leave a message on my machine. I really think you’re, you know, special.” She paused. “Well, bye, I guess. Bye.”
