The Garden Bench and the Yellow Phone

The soil here holds the smell of wet limestone and oregano. A yellow rotary telephone stands near the hydrangea bush, cord taut, the receiver hanging off the cradle. I hear the crunch of gravel under my boots, a sound that should not travel this far into the back garden. The man across the yard smiles, a movement that settles deep into his eyes. He speaks a name, and the syllables dissolve mid-air, breaking apart into the scent of cut grass. He points toward the patio. I feel the shift of his gaze, a recognition that misses its mark, a weight on my shoulder that lifts just before I turn. I reach out, my fingers brushing the warm metal of the telephone. The dial spins freely, clicking against the mechanism, ringing without a connection.