by Avital Gad-Cykman

Nobody has a landline anymore. So I’ve heard. But I do. Friends from the past, who don’t know my cell phone number, may still call me. Or someone new. A collector of old phone books; I don’t know. Someone interesting. Nice.

The phone rings every day. Fact. Mostly, as I pick up, I hear the busy signal. Funny. They (he, she, it) made sure I dropped everything to attend the phone, though they have nothing to say.

Only sometimes it’s a male caller who asks if it’s Enia speaking. It never is.

I’ve stopped replying that he’s got the wrong number. I say “I’m not Enia,” and then he asks if he may speak with her, or with Betty. He’s always polite. A kind man.

I wonder about Enia and Betty. Are they a couple? Are they sisters? Maybe attendants, or managers. I imagine them in their thirties, but I’m not sure. The man keeps calling.

One day, instead of saying “I’m not Enia,” I ask, “Who is this?”

“Me. Ricardo,” he says, surprised, as if I should know.

Perhaps I should. Hasn’t he told me? He’s been calling for such a long time, it’s a sort of relationship.

“This is Avital.” I say. I spell it, to make sure he catches my name. I hear the man drop the receiver onto a hard surface or make a few dancing steps, I can’t be certain which. “Pick up, come on,” I say.

Silence. He’s shy.

“I’m here,” I reassure him.

Nothing. Then, the busy signal.

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Avital Gad-Cykman , the author of Life In, Life Out (Matter Press), and the upcoming Light Reflection Over Blues (Ravenna Press) has published stories in Iron Horse, Prairie Schooner, Ambit, Calyx Journal and McSweeney’s Quarterly among others. Her work has been anthologized in W.W. Norton’s International Flash Fiction, Best Small Fictions 2020 and elsewhere. She grew up in Israel and lives in Brazil.