A Call

The annoying high- bell like signing tune gets off.

My cell phone. I stop typing, hop towards the bed, half hoping, half not expecting, eager, eager to reach it.

The caller's ID says, "Peter". I smile happily. A morning call from Peter!

My bed is a 7-foot long four poster big enough for a twin size bed, old by time and yet sturdy in all this years. Situated in a pleasant tiki green room with polished wood flooring and a multi-colored rug with other white furniture. My giant writer's desk sits next to it, cluttered with different papers, monopolized by a 5 inch by 8 inch black laptop. It fits the sturdy, cheerful image of the rest of the room.... This laptop has endured the stamp of the Y Generation: countless social networking clients using graphic cards and memory heavily.

But right now I want to imprint my a different kind of my own memory, just as I was writing something online when Peter called. My 22 year old fiance unfortunately so far away from me, he makes it a habit to call every morning.

The handless reciever continues ringing until I press the green button that allows me ot access the call.




The End

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