baby, don’t change your number

If anyone is actually pleased to see me updating, thank Alchera for having so many prompts. I actually think I found a way to completely ignore the rule of this prompt, but in my defense I must say this: if someone doesn’t want to make a phone call, it usually has to do with the person at the other end. Ergo, another character. I broke the rules and I am UNREPENTANT!

Your character is preparing to make a phone call he or she doesn’t want to make. Your story should not involve any other characters, leaving the only dialogue to your character speaking aloud to himself, if you should so choose. The rest of the narrative being left mainly to thoughts, actions and descriptions. There aren’t any requirements for a specific length.

He sat staring at the piece of notebook paper for a few moments before he gathered up the courage to start punching in the numbers. He made it to the second digit, then hung up the phone and put his head in his hands.

(She smiled at him from across the room. In a sea of girls in shortshort skirts and low-cut tops, she wore jeans and a simple tank top, her alabaster skin glowing in the blacklight. She sipped a martini, chatting animatedly with the girl next to her.)

The phone number had been hastily scribbled on a bar napkin, and she had kissed it, leaving a print of her cherry lips before handing it to him. He clicked the phone on again and pulled the paper closer to see the numbers.

(As they danced, the lights played across her face: blue, green, pink. She wore little makeup, but the lights were sufficient to enhance her beauty.)

He hung up the phone again and threw it onto the floor. You’re getting worse, he thought. Dial that number, you pussy. A few more moments spent staring at the paper, and he strode to the refrigerator. Liquid courage.

(He watched her from the dance floor. Her eyes swept the scene, and when they finally lit on his face, she smiled again and waved. He waved back and began to make his way to the bar.)

Three numbers before the hangup. He was getting better, he told himself. Obviously beer alone would not get him there. There was a bottle of vodka in the freezer.

(He had asked if she needed a ride home, but at that moment her friend threw up all over the bar. As the bouncers hefted her friend to her feet and dragged her toward the exit, the girl scribbled her number on the napkin and dashed after her friend.)

He had succeeded in dialing all the numbers, and he was proud. Three shots of vodka will do wonders for bravery, he mused, then promptly disconnected.

(Five feet from the bar, a list of pickup lines running through his head. These lines worked on most girls, drunk or sober. He knew how to make a girl want him. He tried to find the perfect line, but suddenly he was at the bar and she was looking at him expectantly.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she said.)

Seven drinks. He had managed to dial the whole number, and had even made it to hearing a full ring before slamming the phone back into it cradle and taking another drink. His head felt light, and he wondered if it was normal that the liquid in the bottle was still while the contents of the room appeared to be sloshing around within its four walls.

(She had smiled at him from across the room, and suddenly none of the model-esque girls grabbing at his shoulders for a dance seemed good enough.)

“Hello? Is someone there?” came a voice from the telephone. He snored.

Chad has recently moved into my apartment, and his boxes are everywhere. For some reason, he thinks that since his permanent address is now here, all of his useless possessions should come with him. (I told him parent’s houses are like free storage units, but he didn’t believe me.) As soon as it gets clean & we hang all my paintings, I promise there will be pictures. Soon!

P.S. Did we all notice the name change? Does anyone like it?