Nobody Answered. They Said It Anyway.

Messages Left After Midnight

Eight messages survived on the machine, each carrying a different voice, a different hour, and something that could not wait until morning. Settle in with these late-night voice messages and listen for the words hiding between the pauses.

1. Message 01, 01:17

   Your Coat Still Smells Like Rain

   I know this is ridiculous, but I walked past the little bakery on Mercer Street tonight, and I remembered your coat. That dark blue one you wore when we got caught in the rain. You gave it to me because I was shivering, remember? I kept it for three days before returning it. Three days, and I still remember how it felt around my shoulders. Anyway, I saw someone wearing the same one today. For half a second, I thought it was you, and my heart did that embarrassing little thing again. I don't think I miss the afternoon itself. I think I miss how easy it was to stand beside you without wondering what it meant. There. That's the whole message. I should probably stop calling this number.

   Longing

2. Message 02, 01:43

   I Knew You Were Watching

   So, the dinner party. I noticed you looking at me across the table. Don't deny it, I saw you just before someone asked for the salt. And I looked away because I was smiling like an idiot. What you probably didn't notice was that I spent the next twenty minutes pretending to be very interested in the conversation about kitchen renovations. I couldn't tell you what anyone said. I remember your hands, though. You kept turning your glass slowly, listening, occasionally touching the rim with your thumb. When we said goodbye, you asked whether I'd made it home safely. Such an ordinary question. I've replayed it four times tonight. I wanted to tell you that I would have stayed another hour if you'd asked. Maybe next time I'll be brave enough to say it.

   Attraction

3. Message 03, 02:06

   The Key I Never Returned

   There's a key in my kitchen drawer. Small brass one, slightly bent, with a faded red tag. Yours. You gave it to me when we were together, and somehow it stayed with me after everything ended. I tell myself I forgot to return it, but that's not really true. I liked knowing there was still a little piece of your life in my apartment. Last Sunday, I finally held it in my palm and understood how strange that was. You changed the locks years ago. The key opens nothing now. I stood by the window for a while, listening to the upstairs neighbors move their chairs, and then I put it back in the drawer. I haven't thrown it away. I don't know if that's sentimental or simply another way of avoiding an ending.

   Regret

4. Message 04, 02:29

   I Was Jealous of the Song

   You played that song for someone else tonight. I was sitting three tables away, pretending to read the menu, and I recognized the first notes immediately. You played it for me once in your living room, barefoot, with the windows open and the neighbor's television coming through the wall. You said it reminded you of a summer you couldn't quite explain. I thought it was our song. Apparently, I was wrong about that. The person sitting beside you seemed happy. I actually hope they are. That's the strange part. I don't want to take anything away from you. I just wish I'd known that something could feel so personal and still belong to nobody. The waiter brought my coffee, and I let it go cold. I think that tells you enough.

   Jealousy

5. Message 05, 02:51

   The Elevator Took Too Long

   We were alone in the elevator for maybe forty seconds. That's all. You pressed seven, I pressed nine, and then the doors closed with that awful metallic shudder. You asked whether I'd had a good evening. I said yes, even though I'd been thinking about you since you arrived. There was something about the quiet. The little light above the buttons, your reflection in the mirrored wall, the faint smell of your perfume. I wanted to move closer. Not dramatically, not like in a film. Just enough that you'd notice I had chosen to stand beside you. Then the elevator stopped at seven. You smiled, said goodnight, and disappeared down the corridor. I've been standing in my kitchen for twenty minutes now, holding a glass of water I haven't touched. I hope we take the elevator together again.

   Temptation

6. Message 06, 03:12

   I Almost Sent the Photograph

   I found the photograph while cleaning my phone tonight. It's not even a particularly good picture. We're sitting on the floor of my old apartment, surrounded by unopened boxes, and you're laughing at something outside the frame. I'm looking at you instead of the camera. I hadn't noticed that before. I almost sent it to you with a little note. Something casual, something that wouldn't reveal how long I'd been looking at it. But then I remembered our last conversation, when we agreed that missing each other wasn't necessarily a reason to start again. I put the phone down. Made tea. Opened the kitchen window because the room was too warm. And now I'm here, telling an answering machine about a photograph. Maybe that's enough for tonight. Maybe some memories deserve to stay exactly where they are.

   Tenderness

7. Message 07, 03:38

   I Like You Without a Reason

   I have a confession, and it's embarrassingly simple. I like you. Not because you say clever things or because you always know which wine to order. I like the way you read the last page of a book before deciding whether to buy it. I like that you leave your scarf on the back of a chair and forget about it. I like the little pause you make before laughing, as if you're asking yourself whether something is actually funny. Tonight we walked home together, and you talked about replacing a broken lamp. I listened as if you were telling me the most important story in the world. I didn't say anything because I didn't want to interrupt you. But I wanted to take your hand. There. No grand explanation, no clever ending. I just like you. Very much.

   Affection

8. Message 08, 03:56

   Tomorrow I Will Tell You

   It's almost four. The radiator keeps clicking, the street outside is empty, and I've finally made up my mind. Tomorrow, when we meet at the little coffee shop, I'm going to tell you that I don't want to keep pretending our evenings are accidental. I like our long walks. I like the extra cup you order even though you know I never finish mine. I like how you wait for me to catch up when I stop to look in shop windows. I've spent weeks trying to guess whether you feel the same, and I'm tired of turning every small gesture into a mystery. So tomorrow I'll ask if you'd like to have dinner with me. Proper dinner, just the two of us, with no excuses about being in the neighborhood. I'm nervous. My hands are cold. But for once, I'm looking forward to morning.

   Hope