I know that number.

The wonders of science. Or technology. Or BT.

I know that number. It’s your number. Someone – perhaps even you – is trying to ring me. From you flat. Your flat where I am no longer welcome. You flat where we used to meet. To talk. To eat. To laugh. To love. To fuck.

The ringing stops. The LCD on the phone goes dead. Lifeless. Empty.

Why have you left me? Have you given up?

Yet I didn’t try to answer.

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