[Voicemail beep] KEVIN: Hi. It’s Kevin. Obviously. You know that because the machine said my account number before it asked me to speak. I was going to say something normal. I wrote it down. “Hello, Viv. Thank you for your time.” That sounds like I’m returning a blender. [Soft piano] After the beep, I become courageous. Before the beep, I rehearse being fine. After the beep, I say something honest, then erase it before it reaches the line. I know that Viv isn’t your name. I know the candlelight voice is a trick. I know you don’t live in a castle. I know you were probably eating something with a very aggressive crunch. I know. That should make this easier. It doesn’t. My wife used to leave me messages when groceries were low. “Milk, bread, coffee, and whatever keeps you from becoming unbearable.” I kept one for eleven months after she died. Then my phone updated. Progress. [Voicemail warning tone] After the beep, there should be a boundary. A clean little wall made of rates and time. But grief is rude. It ignores the menu. It presses zero and waits on the line. I don’t think you love me. That would be insane. I don’t think I know you. That would be worse. I think you stayed quiet without trying to repair me, and now I miss a person I have technically never met. That sentence should be illegal. [Muted trumpet enters] Maybe I’m only buying a room where I can speak. Maybe you’re only working. Maybe I’m only weak. Maybe kindness feels enormous when your house has gone still. Maybe paying makes it safer because nobody owes you goodwill. [Beep] Recorded Voice: You have twenty seconds remaining. KEVIN: Of course I do. After the beep, I could ask for your real name. I could ask you to call. I could make this unfair. After the beep, I could turn my loneliness into one more thing you’re required to carry. So— Hi, Viv. Thank you for your time. I hope your chips were good. [He deletes the message] Recorded Voice: Message deleted. [New beep] KEVIN: Hi, Viv. It’s Kevin. Do dolphins lie? [He hangs up]
