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The Telephone Call

There is tension in the line. Notice the tautness of the cable, stretching past the night lamp. This is about an eagerly awaited visit - cancelled at short notice. All the preparations - the long, relaxing bath, carefully chosen deodorants, of little use this time.

Hence the angry swipe at the blue flower pot. Hence the crumpled dress which lies unadorned. And roses knocked unlovedly off their perch. A room in a hurried state of disassembly.

There is this window in an otherwise spartan student accomodation. It must be sometime near spring. The radiator is there alright, yet open window panes probably mean a thaw in the chill outside. But look at this mess! Bloody mind games (excuse me).

The telephone call is over, the initial rage of emotion has subsided - giving way to a resigned understanding, the room will be eventually reorganized and fresh roses will decorate the pot. Junk mails and old newspapers will find refuge in the waste basket, letters from overseas will be tucked neatly into respective envelopes.

New dresses will be worn and fresh telephone calls made...

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