For three days, my cellphone is conjoined to me. I make no move without it. I switch it off when I take my bath – I don’t want to risk you calling when I can’t pick up and leaving me a trail of your attempt. I reckon this way you’ll try again and not assume I’m too busy to take your call (I’m not). (Oh god, did you call when I had it switched off and did you assume I was too caught up even to keep my phone switched on?) I could have emailed you again, but then can I, do I, should I assume I have the right to smother you with my desperation, my craving? If only you’d call and if I had the guts to ask and burn your answer on my frozen self.

 Quatrainman muses on the ‘wait’ before the ‘call’.