She’s lying half-clad on a hotel bed
reading The Lover when her Razrphone
buzzes. A smoky baritone voice asks,
Are you wearing cotton panties?
I never wear cotton panties, she answers.
Where did you get this number? A hint
of magnolia seeps from her deliberate words.
Are you wearing panties at all?
He asks in a nonchalant tone.
Is this an obscene phone call?
She rolls onto her stomach, eyes
the storm clouds roiling the downtown
skyline outside her Adolphus window.
Do you want it to be? he asks.
I want you to be more imperious.
Don’t ask so many questions.
After a long silence he continues.
Tell me something about yourself.
Tell me something sad.
I’ve been in Cairo, she whispers.
I haven’t felt rain on my skin
in six months. She disconnects him,
tosses the phone onto her bed.
She gazes outside at the ominous storm
and, shifting her balance to one hip,
waits for the phone to buzz again.
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