The Yellow Phone Cord

I stand in the laundromat. The fluorescent lights buzz a low, constant hum over the folding metal tables. The air smells like hot mildew and old citrus detergent. A yellow rotary telephone sits on the counter, the hook dangling at an angle. I lift the receiver; the plastic is warm. A dull ache settles under my ribs, a weight I know belongs to a woman named Eleanor, though I have never met her.

I press the cradle down. It rings two times. The machine across the way, which holds quarters, lists names instead of change amounts. I press my ear to the plastic. A deep silence answers. I open my mouth. I speak the name: Gabriel. The sound leaves my tongue, hangs in the wet air, and then separates. The syllables dissolve immediately, dropping into nothing, leaving only the faint scent of ozone. I drop the receiver back into its cradle. The metal feels cool.