Dust patterns have gathered around my landline phone, huddling around the maroon. my fingerprints take some dust off of it, and they rejoice. it is 7:34 pm now, which means your tutor has just left, after leaving her half-finished cup of tea and double-finished plate of biscuits on your desk. I press the buttons quickly, your landline a series of 7s and 4s and 0s and 1s away from me. please pick up, I whisper. you do—oh wait it's your maid, no wait it's your grandmother, and she asks me how I am today. I lie easily, a fearless teenager, and ask her how she is today. she lies casually, a war veteran, and calls you from afar. i can hear your brother's breath from the other side, still a beginner at eavesdropping. your penguin steps ring in my ear from afar, and here you are, sitting beside the phone, its springy wires extending needlessly. i switch to the cordless phone, black in ecstasy, taking three strides to my room and closing the door behind me. jaanish ajke ki hoise? I exclaim, and tell you about my day. bol bol, you reply, and begin to hear my tales. both of our telephone bills skyrocket, hearts and ears in sync. in time, I learn to listen and she begins to weave her tales.

the phone numbers have changed, the people have relocated. i have yet to pay my telephone bills. i remain a shaking urn, spilling out stories from spotlights in separation.

Nawal Naz Tareque, based in Connecticut, the United States, is a computer science major by day and a (growing) poet by night. She wonders about the mundane too often and can often be found cracking terrible jokes when she returns home.