Flights of Infancy
The phone I rang was answered by [him]. [He] echoed every single “hello” I made. The voice flippant with a hint of flagrant sardonic humour, sans the reeking sardine fragrance, complimentary of the proxy voice over the wire and wave. Not that [he] have one, at least not at that moment.
I’m in no mood to hear someone aping me, much less to have [him] picking up her phone. Never once [he] does that since I met her. Always the ever subservient porter of the magic voice box — as it rang, the perfunctory hand handed it over to her.
Perhaps it’s schadenfreude. Knowing well that I’m already reduced to a lesser subject of her affection.
No more the magus of amorous plague. Merely the pariah of delirious fugue.
Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello.
I throttled the aping sound with a silent touch of unceremonious disconnection.
I was hoping the droning white noise became a stimulus for [his] dutiful mind when it concern her mobile phone.