To Hanging Up on Someone

Damn, that feels good, right?

 

There he is going on and on about whatever it is. He just keeps talking and it’s like he’s trying to make me mad on purpose, like he is just pushing, pushing me to react, to lose my cool.

“You think you know me? You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me. You want…”

<click>

Gone.

Of course, decades ago, there was an actual <click> sound. And you could slam the phone down and almost bang the other person’s ear. You actually banged the phone down on it’s cradle instead of just tapping a touch screen. A dramatic gesture with bang and clatter.

Now, it’s more like blowing out a candle, like flicking off a light switch, like dusting lint off your shoulder, like removing a stray eyelash. Not a sound. And then it’s over.

You think it’s over. At least, you are talking anymore. That conversation is over. Or rather, that part of that conversation is over.

You both swear at the phone. Maybe you flip the bird at the phone or just to no one in particular. You start walking around or you open up a new search tab and just pretend to be interested in some obscure political fringe movement of the 1940’s. You both carry on the conversation, both winning and brilliant with sharp witty retorts. You should write these down, you think. Make a list.

The hang up is final. And the rules are unclear about what it means to be the one to call back first. Are you weak? Or bold? Are you that emotionally unstable? Or stable? And if he calls you back, should you answer? Let it go to voicemail?

Undoing this, repairing this, is the work of miners. A small headlamp and a darkness that eats light to its very edges. Each of you nodding. You hope that the light you think you see is him. You hope it’s not a reflection. You want to call his name but you can’t tell how far away he is. Even a whisper feels violent in this silence.