• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 06
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A Peel of You

When the phone rings it really rings they say, do they say that, I’m not sure; in fact, I believe they say that in relation to rain, but these phone calls seem to fall in incessant waves like the rain that lashes the windows at this time of year, this time of year being part and parcel of the reason that the phone calls were hammering down, hammering down in the musical tinkles of a bland descending clump of repeating notes that drew clenched teeth and a frustrating phroaahahafrom me upon hearing it, me that is who is being plagued by these incessant phone calls, the incessant nature of which are causing me to hop around my small flat on one foot as I reel from standing on a hidden upturned plug from the kettle or the iron or the hairdryer, whatever the item the plug belonged to, an act caused by my rushing to answer the phone, it hurt, it really hurt, it hurt enough for me to wrench the hurt foot up towards my face so that I could assess the damage, an assessment which would in no way lessen the pain but it was a gut reaction, one that I don’t think is unique to me as I have seen other people doing it in the instance of pain to the bottom of the foot, a pain that I currently am processing as I hop around, the phone clamped between my increasingly hot and clammy ear, and my raised shoulder, looking for something to write down a message on, the message that all these phone calls were trying to relay to me.


A Peel of You

I tore a pear-shaped piece from the front of a magazine. The magazine was on top of unwieldy pile of things on a side table. I didn’t look as I tore. I was looking at the bottom of my foot — remember. I managed to peel this oddly-shaped slice from the middle of the front cover with relative ease. Until yesterday, an anemic aloe vera plant in a heavy metal tin had sat atop this unwieldy pile. Over time, the regular watering and associated weight had left an indentation. An indentation from which I was able to peel this shape from, with relative ease — remember. Now peeled, I needed a pen from which to commit the message coming from the phone onto this newly-peeled slice of paper. It was this need that took my focus back to the unwieldy pile. The pile was, if my memory served me, always coupled on the side table by a pot of pens. So I reached over, both feet on the floor now. I looked down to where I had taken that oddly-shaped slice and saw you. There you were on the other side, captured in that awkward tableau that you always found so funny. How dare you turn up at a time like this!