Call Me

At first I thought she'd been left on the shelf. Facing lonely nights either on her own or with a partner she'd never quite got round to marrying. No silver framed happy day on her sideboard and no kids at differing ages framed and placed next to that fading happy day. Sick of the late nights and forced nights out with a younger and younger crowd. But no it was something entirely different.
Or rather the same, but different. She'd also known that ships in the night feeling too. Now she needed a lifeboat. And I was it she'd decided.

Which was why she got in touch after 20 odd years. 20 especially odd years. Which were about to get odder. Texted. Out of the blue. No name or anything, just I saw you on the web, how you doing? Where’re you living, how's life? It was shit at that particular moment. Work and home. I didn't know who the fuck it was, but I didn't say so. I lied like we all do, that everything was great, not grating. Finishing with 'who are you?' I needed to know. No, I wanted to know.

She said she was Paula. I knew a few. Or used to. It couldn't be any of them. More chat and she said her surname. It meant nothing. When I asked where she got the number, she said some freelance site. This was the only contact I'd had from that shit site, never any work in all the time it had been hard, which was longer than I could afford or wanted. But I'd had fuck all for ages and I wanted her. Eventually I remembered her.

Flirty texts followed. A few calls. Promised photos never arrived. In the hope it would help, I got a new phone I couldn't afford and suspected she was a bit bigger than the size 8 she reckoned she was from the gym. I guessed at size 16 from the chippie. Imagining the shelf she'd been left on had started to sag.

The pictures proved me wrong. She looked fantastic even with most of her face cut off. Which was weird if she was single, who was she hiding from? I admitted I wasn't, but things were a bit shit. Or a lot shit. But now I had some hope. Or at least a secret. The start of a plan. Something.

But it all went wrong so quickly. There was no mention of mntl ilnss in any of the flirty texts. And the naked pictures left nowhere to hide any schizophrenic episodes, however skimpy they were. But they slowly came out. The swinger with mood swings. The mercury switch in just 2 or 3 sentences. Screaming for blood and then forgiveness. I was everything she wanted, then nothing like she hoped, remembered, expected. Hot and cold. Then mainly cold. I began dreading the calls and let them distil through the answer machine, phone held well away from my ear when I got round to listening. Texts read though squinting eyes, misspelt venom. All arriving throughout the night. Every night for the last 2 weeks.

Which was why I found myself in Anne Summers, just as it was closing. Exactly a month to the day after that first text. I was paying for two big - but more importantly - thick dildos before waiting for dark so I could head off to her house. She'd let slip her married name in one of the increasingly frequent rants about her husband, who I'd actually started to have sympathy for, and the rest was easy.

I’d already had a drive past. New estate, houses too close together, lawns all square and neatly trimmed. You could almost hear the sound of car keys on the table, the background soundtrack a monotonous, but not monogamous, boredom. They all wanted to avoid their neighbours so no twitchy curtains. Perfect.

I parked on the next street down, near the junction. Hers was number 13. It just had to be. The cars were sat in the drive, his and hers. Inappropriately large 4WD for him and a neat little town car for her. The same colour and both clean in the way only those guys at the supermarket car park can achieve while you dawdle over ready meals. Which is what I set off to go and eat now while I waited for the night to bring the morning. Just before dawn was ideal. I tried to remember that joke about the crack of dawn as I thought about was coming. I’d be writing my own punchline.

There was only a little bit of traffic about when I headed back. After waiting for a milkman, whistling as usual, to head away, nothing moved in whichever direction I looked. Which was a godsend or they’d have seen someone getting out of the car and heading towards number 13 with the head of a plastic cock hanging out of each coat pocket. The pink one was forced firmly into her exhaust and he got the black one. It was harder than you think getting them wedged so firmly. And not that erotic. A quick check no one was watching and I headed back to the car and simply drove away, wondering who would be first to leave for work.

It was her. Jumping in the car, late as usual, loading the kids and strapping them in as usual, backing out of the drive before a strap on stalled the engine. After about the third loud stuttering attempt to get the car started, her husband came out, not yet dressed. He couldn’t start it either and scratched his head as he started to walk round the car. It took ages to see it. But as soon as he caught sight of its skin coloured length sticking unnaturally out of the exhaust he simply said “You’ve been at it again” and headed back into the house, his anger hidden until he slammed the door.