Ghost story / part five

bad joke

Girlfriend (on the phone): “Babe, if you had to choose between me and breathing, what would you pick?”

Boyfriend: “Obviously yo—”

Call drops. Forever.

Dear Diary,

The other night my boyfriend called me on the phone.

He died the next day.

It was weird, because he was kind of dead already. I didn’t think I would hear from him again.

But there I was, outside a CVS, numbing out on my phone, when his name flashed the screen.

The number belonged to somebody else now. The new owner is kind of mean and cranky. They keep calling me by accident. I still talk to them, you know, because why not? It’s better than talking to yourself all the time.

It’s been a while since the number called me. But there it was, flashing on my screen. The black heart in the middle of my boyfriend’s name. And it was him!

I sat outside the CVS talking to him for a while. It was so nice to hear his voice and his laugh again. I told him about my day. He told me about his. It was just like old times.

I was getting thirsty. I needed a large iced coffee. So I did something I never do. I put him on speaker phone and went to Dunkin Donuts. (I’m a big fan of using the phone in the old fashioned way- just holding it to my face. Sometimes I wonder how many people never do this.)

This Dunkin Donuts was weird. It was my first time there. The parking lot was weirdly sketchy. A group of teenagers were hanging out at a table, even though it was pretty late. I told my boyfriend I’d call him back.

The man in front of me looked like a typical American dad. He forgot something at the register — and then the employee quietly called back “Monsieur”— and they spoke softly in French for a minute.

I walked back into the parking lot and into my car. It felt like all the other cars were watching me. I called my boyfriend back.

At first, it went straight to voicemail. I panicked. Did his phone die? But then I tried again. It rang. I prayed I would get him and not the angry person. And my prayer came true.

I asked him what I should do— the parking lot was watching me, and I wanted to get home.

Cigarette length phone wind-down? Perfect.

I told him a bad joke. It went something like,

Why did the hipster wait to eat his pizza?

Because it wasn’t cool enough.

He laughed a lot.

I told him a boring story about a boring TV show I’m watching.

He told me that weirdly enough, I would be a great phone sex operator.

I told him that weirdly enough, I wouldn’t be opposed to it if the job still existed. Nobody has to see or touch me. And I don’t have to see or touch anyone either.

One more cigarette? I asked?

Yeah.

We talked about how weird it is that the concept of phone sex operator as a job is almost quaint now.

I told him that I want to move to New Mexico and only have a landline.

He told me I was his favorite person in the world to talk on the phone with.

I told him that he was mine.

My second cigarette was over.

We said I love you, and hung up the phone.

He died the next day.

I wish I had never left that parking lot.

I wish that I had smoked the rest of my cigarettes, one by one, until they were gone. Then I guess I’d have to quit. It wouldn’t be so bad.

My coffee would be done eventually. I would get thirsty. My voice would get hoarse. I could never sing again. But it would be ok.

The night would turn into day, then night again, and again, until it was perpetual dusk.

All of the cars staring at me would drive away. Their owners would grow old and die. And I wouldn’t have to be afraid of them anymore.

The Dunkin would close. Then deteriorate. Then all of Woodhaven Boulevard would follow.

My apartment and all my belongings would collect dust until they had to be burned.

My car would run out of gas.

And then after that, my phone would die.

And I would be stranded in the ghost town of New York, with nothing to do.

But it would be ok. If we could just have stayed on the phone.

Love,

𝒞𝒶𝓈𝓈𝒾ℯ