things move around

It was the best of phones, it was the worst of phones.

It trilled like a lovesick nightingale. It rasped like a hacksaw on a bone.

I come home and wait for it to ring. A motorbike revs in the street outside. I jump. The tension in my throat. The lump in my pants. The record I put on to alleviate the cramps.

Ha ha, ha ha.

AGB was so not in love, and disembodied voices don’t do it for me. A second-best merchant, him; but still, I’ll take what I can get.