setting: london
weather: rain
music: light piano
character: you
a pink cord phone sits in a telephone booth, your long tan trench coat kisses the road, the tail painted with drops of rain. you stare at the telephone booth waiting for it to tell you something, a sign. you almost walk away, but something stops you. you can’t tell what but you walk into the telephone booth. the words “tell her you love her” are written in black marker on the phone. the cord droops down near your hand. the sign you were waiting for. you pick up the phone and gently start to press in the numbers. why are you listening to a telephone? you ask yourself. dial tones ring the first few times. then you hear someone. “hello, who is this?” they ask. you clear your throat awkwardly, then start. “its me”, you hope they can recognize your voice. they search for a name to place with the sound they just heard. “sorry, who is this?” they ask again. “me” you say, this time with your name. radio silence follows. suddenly you wish this telephone box was a portkey. a way out. who listens to a pink phone anyway? “what number are you calling from” they ask. “a telephone booth in london” you say. they make a sound of understanding, something like a tsk, or hmm, but it’s hard to make out what exactly they said. then a knock pounds the telephone booth. you turn back, expecting an impatient old man with a black umbrella, a bit like your grandpa. but it’s not. it’s her. her mouth morphs into a smile and she’s holding out balloons which sway in the breeze. you’re still holding the phone to your ear. shit, you think, but you’re smiling all ear to ear. she’s here. your sister made it all this way for you.