Sitting, finally, leaning forward a little with my elbows on my knees on the chair with the wobbly legs, the one we tried to put together after the fight and succeeded, for the most part, save for the slight unevenness of the thing though now it has a bit of character with its battle scars and all and fits in nicely with the rest of the place, the rest of the people that are here some of the time and then they're not all of the sudden and we wonder about their safety and well being but we don't bother to ask each other or anyone else, and I listen to the ringing of the phone in the kitchen, the phone without an answering machine so it will ring all day until the caller hangs up, but then it stops, silence for a minute, and then it rings again and rings and rings and rings.
"Who do you think it is?" asks the man with the dying electric razor voice, the man sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall on my favorite stained, coverless cushion that came from I don't know where, his chin still buried in his chest and he does that looking up at me from his forehead thing that makes me feel i'm not important enough for him to acknowledge me with a complete head raise and direct eye contact and then "Don't you think we ought to answer it?" but I don't think so, no, and it stops anyways though I know it will start again soon and I look at the cuts on the back of my hands, try to move the ring finger on my left and I wonder if it's broken and the guy sitting on the floor on my favorite cushion asks "When the hell did this place get a phone?"
"Who do you think it is?" asks the man with the dying electric razor voice, the man sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall on my favorite stained, coverless cushion that came from I don't know where, his chin still buried in his chest and he does that looking up at me from his forehead thing that makes me feel i'm not important enough for him to acknowledge me with a complete head raise and direct eye contact and then "Don't you think we ought to answer it?" but I don't think so, no, and it stops anyways though I know it will start again soon and I look at the cuts on the back of my hands, try to move the ring finger on my left and I wonder if it's broken and the guy sitting on the floor on my favorite cushion asks "When the hell did this place get a phone?"
