Wrong Number Wrong Time

This time it was just a Bad Signal.

It was him again. That confused man on my machine. Sounded a bit winded this time, definitely a bit drunk. Like last time. Apparently he didn’t remember our conversation. That he had the wrong number. That his daughter had not been getting his messages, because she did not live here.

This time he sounded nearly frantic. Hurt. Why wasn’t she calling him back. If she wasn’t willing to talk to him, at least she could hear him out. But whatever it was that was so important for her to hear, it was lost in more than just voicemails she would never hear. Import gave way to the crackle of static, and as much as I wanted to know what it was that he “should have told her months ago…”, I was somewhat relieved that I wouldn’t be carrying around a secret I had no way to impart.

(Mostly True Story)