things move around

“It’s Mrs Phone for you.”

“Thanks.”

But “thanks” isn’t what I want to say at all. I know that a call from Phone is always succeeded by a visit from Wall. And I don’t want a visit from Wall. I hang up at the split second the receptionist transfers the call. Cowardice is the better part of discretion.

I’ve never met Mrs Phone, but I’ve seen her name in the minutes of meetings and I know that none are as well connected as she. Everyone in the company knows how it works with her and Mr Wall. Phone picks you up, then Wall comes in and makes the hit, thump, like a lump of pig iron in the sternum. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

I wait for the phone to ring again, and torment myself with the knowledge that it’s impossible to unplug it from the wall.