“Hello. This is the last known number of… Ted Timmerman. If this is not he — ah — hrm. If this is not him, please, respectfully, delete this message.”
I can’t even talk to an answering machine… God, I thought this would go better.
I don’t believe in love.
You’ve never found your heart.
I found my heart and broke it.
Rarely clean-shaven; never well-dressed; and frankly, he sometimes smelled and his face was checkered in subtle but noticeable pock marks. It was always hard to tell if he cared about his appearance, because it was never kept any way…
She is angry.
To be honest, it’s not undeserved. At this point, I am really only hearing every third or fourth word she says. It’s usually either “fuck” or “god.” Sometimes both. “Fucking god, Arthur…” and then I am not sure. Maybe she’s reminding me what I did to deserve this.