hree a.m., phone rings so I pick it up. What do I know? I'm in some dream or other. All I can think is, don't wake the baby. So I pick it up, you know? It's a man's voice, a nice voice and I'm not all together there yet and he just sort of says,

"Hey,"

So I say, "Hey."

And he goes, "You sleeping?"

And of course I say, "No, uh-huh." Wanting to be polite. He seems to know me. Doesn't ask my name or tell me his. What would you think? And I really am in no mood to wake up or have an argument. Then he says,

"What're you wearing?"

And, ok, I'm slow but I'm getting it, all right? Because right about then I swing my legs out of the covers, lift the phone out of my rat's nest of bed hair and tell him,

"Hang on." And I go into the kitchen so the baby won't hear my voice but I don't turn any lights on and I look at the clock on the VCR and yup, it's 3:10 and all the windows are open and it's still my apartment up on the hill and I can still see the lights of the radio and TV tower which is rare because there's usually fog everywhere. So I sit down in the kitchen chair facing the window and tell him,

"My white nightie."

And he makes a funny sound on the phone like he's eating something or wiping his mouth and I'm getting my eyes focused on the twinkling outside and my butt's tingling on the cold vinyl of the kitchen chair.

I stretch my legs out under the table, wondering what he'll say next. His voice is soothing and sad at the same time. Not like the guy who called a couple months ago, loud and mean and demanding. I hung right up on him. I get enough of that kind of shit at work: do this and do that and telling me all the shit I could do for him. I don't need that. And he says,

"I'd love to see you right now."

And I have to laugh at that one because it's so innocent and so not seductive to me at all, knowing what I look like right now. Then I hear the baby whimper in her sleep and I tone it down a little and start whispering to him. I say,

"No you don't really, not now. Maybe after a shower and some makeup."

Then he laughs and it sounds like a kind of purr in my ear which makes me groan a little, involuntarily, knowing that we don't even know each other but he's generous enough to share a laugh, to let me see that far into him.

I'm surprised by this. So I say,

"What are you up to?"

And he says, "Just got in from work."

And I ask him, "What do you do?"

And he says, just as easy as can be, "Come on, you know what I do, baby."

Well, I have to laugh again. I say something like, "Right," but he's already saying,

"Bad night. Nobody out on a week night. Only picked up seventy-five in
tips."

So I say, "Seventy-five's not bad."

He goes, "Seventy-five? You know I usually pull in a couple hundred on a good night."

And his voice goes all pouty and I'm getting it that he does think he knows me and he thinks I know him and I'm suddenly really sad and not wanting him to stop talking in my ear. So I'm holding my breath and wondering if he gets what I just got and I can see the lights of this big passenger jet just passing over the hill straight out my window. It moves real slow, like it doesn't want to land but all the lights are blinking on it like crazy, getting ready to land and I can't take my eyes off of it. I'm suddenly afraid it's going to crash right in front of me, run into that mountain, not see those radio lights, skid down the cliff face and collapse in a roaring ball of fire and burning bodies, when he says,

"So, can I come over?"

And without even thinking I say, "Sure, why not?" throwing caution to the wind, knowing the end of this story and already curling my toes thinking about getting back under the covers, imagining him driving to whoever he thinks he's talking to as I drift back to sleep to the rhythm of the baby's breathing, when he says,

"So where do you live?"

And I get this big gulp in my throat at the same time that passenger jet glides safely and smoothly over the mountain and out of my vision and my eyes drop back down to the kitchen table, up to the curtains, over to the coffee maker, the carpet, the recliner, the bookshelf. I say,

"What?"

And he says, "Give me your address. I'll be right over." In that low voice, full of confidence, like he knows what I'm thinking and knows that's just what he's thinking too.

And I say, "3350 Maple Circle, apartment 4." And I take in a breath to see if he'll hang up, but he says,

"What's your name?"

And I have to laugh. I tell him,

"Maggie," and ask him, "What's yours?" and he tells me,

"Jeff."

And the night gets a little lighter and all the dishes seem to be floating. And when we hang up I can still hear his voice in my head and I know he's the perfect man for me.

[END]

© Cheryl Diane Kidder 2002