The Call

The phone rang. It sounded far off, distant but insistent, the short pauses holding their breath, nervous anticipation held taut in the air. She felt herself move. Her legs stretched, long and sharp, they jutted out of her body, angular shapes jarring, outlines unapologetic in their defiance. She followed her own movements, one by one, as her legs bent in front of her, savoring these lingering moments before assuming their responsibility. Her legs had never agreed with her. But they didn’t cry, and they didn’t scream – they buckled occasionally, but these were just accidents. She stepped forward, meticulous with every change, every slightest movement. It was as though she was tracking herself, making notes of her inaccuracies and mistakes, surveilling her own progress.

She reached the front door, opened it, and leaned against the doorframe. There was a brick wall surrounding her garden of cement and weeds. Short and stubborn, it didn’t reach her waist. Through her mind she could see the other neighbors, performing their evening ritual. They would each perch on their wall, teetering on the very tip of their own world, and call across a wall or two to another world. They would tell stories, jokes, share pleasantries; sometimes different, but always the same. Occasionally she would listen: listen to the intimacies, the concerns, the comforts, and sometimes she would watch the possession, the wariness, the unnervingly circular progression. But this was not enjoyable, so she didn’t do so often. She would follow as they reached across the walls, their arms stretching out, spindly fingers seeming to grow as they grasped for a single cigarette being passed along. She continued to stare as a lighter was revealed, lit, extinguished, and replaced in a hidden pocket, its brief foray into the light lasting a matter of seconds. She would watch as they rose, one by one, and retreated into the doors of their homes, because their house was theirs, and their garden wasn’t always.

Her eyes fixated on the wall, and she started to giggle. It was like a cat pissing as it stalks around a circle, marking his territory, the smell a warning sign marked «keep out or I’ll bite”. The idea of Mrs. Smith hissing at passersby seemed so absurd, yet somehow not completely unimaginable.

“Nice afternoon,” Mr. Smith from across the street smiled. Her giggles retreated in a fluster. “Lovely garden you got there. There’ll be plenty of blooms in the spring.” His gaze reached hers, bright with expectancy. Abruptly, her shadow in the doorframe began to recede until, with a sharp snap, the door shut, leaving only a flat surface, unyielding.

The phone was no longer ringing. The quiet could be heard, crawling from every crevice, every hole a mouse had once ventured its nose, searching for the remnants of some mediocre meal swept under the cupboard. The quiet could be felt rushing on, its uncontained fervour drawn from the edges, a million pieces collecting as it swept past, down the corridor. She followed the quiet, her nose instinctively turning towards an absence. One step at a time. As she passed on, one began to glimpse flickers of something in her eyes; the surface of some movement underneath, reflected through a clear lens. She stepped forwards and it was gone.

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