By Nestor Sow ’27
That stupid light poured through the blinds across the room. It was that kind of light that made you wince. It was a thin gray time of day, not morning, but not afternoon. The kind of light that made everything look ancient. There was a Solo cup on the floor, tipped over, with something pouring out. Probably peach vodka, at least it smelled like it. Or whatever cheap shit they poured into everyone’s cups and passed it around like it was the Blood of Jesus.
My head ached, not like a headache, but like I got hit by a bus. Or like I was too deep underwater. My mouth was dry with some dried drool on my cheeks. My hoodie was stuck to my back, and there was vomit on my shoes. I don’t remember throwing up.
I didn’t recognize the room at first.
Couch cushions and plastic bags were scattered on the floor. There were crushed chips all over the floor, too. Someone’s denim jacket sat lonely in the corner, across from a half-eaten Pop-Tart in the window. A Polaroid stuck face up in a puddle of some liquid. It smelled like cough syrup. The people in the picture I didn’t recognize. No music anymore, just some wind blowing through the window and the AC turning on and off now and then. The silence was that of one who arrives late and stays too long. Empty.
My phone was under the table; I saw the charger first. The white chewed-up cord curled in a spiral. When I reached for it, my fingers brushed glass shards. It was face down. I grabbed it and flipped it over. The screen was cracked, and some sort of substance was smeared on the front. I wiped it off on my shorts. A couple of Snapchat notifications, Instagram notifications, nothing out of the ordinary. As I scrolled further, I saw it.
1 missed call. 1 voice mail. From: Dad.
I blinked. I didn’t touch it. I sat up and walked to the couch to get my bearings. The air in the room felt thick suddenly, like trying to breathe through a plastic bag. A candle was burning out too; the smell of old wax and some odd cinnamon scent held to everything. My ribs ached. My shirt smelled like alcohol and sweat.
The call came in at 11:52 PM. Dad and I haven’t talked in a while, maybe months. Not since I made my college decisions. Last time we talked, I hung up before he could finish.
I remember the phone buzzing last night. It vibrated against my thigh. I looked at the screen while someone handed me a drink. I looked away. Then I laughed. At someone. At something. Or maybe nothing. Now the call was still there, waiting for me.
The house creaked, then went quiet again. I stood, unbalanced, then walked to the window. The glass was warm. The summer was going to end soon. Outside, the streets looked like someone had yelled “CUT!” Cars were frozen, trees still, and not a single person. My voicemail app sent me a notification: “One unread message.” I sat down against the wall and held my phone in my hands. I didn’t press play, though.
Instead, I stared at the bright screen until it dimmed. It lit up again from a Snapchat notification. Then dimmed again. It felt alive in my hand, not anything like a phone. I wonder if he knew I wouldn’t pick up. If he expected it, or didn’t. Maybe he left something angry, or sad, or something worse, kind. The phone had shut off already. I turned it back on and opened the Phone app. I tapped on the message.
My thumb hovered over the triangle for what felt like an eternity. And then I turned off my phone. And gently set it face down on the floor.
It wasn’t courage or fear that kept me from opening it. Probably something in between. I don’t have a word for it.
Outside, the wind moved with the trees. A car rolled by. A person was walking their dog. I sat there and let the light some through the blinds and land on my body. Just out of reach of my head. I thought about how his voice was there. In that tiny little box, waiting for as long as I needed.
Leave a Reply