Telephobia

Almost always, the anticipation is worse than the deed,

but the deed is a slow murder of

comfort. I become an irony of fluids: palms slippery, mouth

dry, heart pumping cold blood.

Every ring is a step toward the gallows. I am not attuned to

facelessness; speaking now is

grasping blind, a hand sifting through the

haberdashery drawer and catching on—

Interruption. A collision of voices, a pause, a

jittery apology. I am such a fan of

keeping my mouth shut.

Lull in conversation like a game of chicken.

Mutual awkwardness, or a

notion of it that is in fact

one-sided. How can I know? There is no

physiognomy to read, no

quality to silence distorted by static.

Remembering what was

said when you can’t hear above your own

thoughts, like flies buzzing in ears, or maybe a dial tone.

Unexpected question triggers

vascular event and I am going off script,

wracking mind, wagging tongue, saying

XYZ when certainly asked for ABC,

yearning for freedom, for conversation to

zip along, for my finger on the big red button, for triumph.