by Erin L. Nappe
(published in Journal of the Blue Planet, April 2003.)
Eric picked up the phone and dialed, fueled by the courage of too many beers. He examined the ceiling of the common room while it rang.
“Hello?” she croaked.
Eric’s gut wrenched at the sound of Sarah’s voice. He ran one hand over his crew-cut head.
“Hey, did I wake you?”
“Eric? What time is it?”
He glanced at the clock. Oh shit, he thought.
“It’s 3:30.”
“In the morning?”
“Yeah. Um. Did you get my letter?”
The letter. The letter had said everything.
Silence.
“Yeah.”
“So?”
More silence.
“Eric, I really like you. I do.”
“Sarah, I told you I’m in love with you.”
She breathed, a thousand miles away.
“Oh, Eric, no you’re not.”
He stared at his feet, twisted the phone cord around his finger.
“How can you say that?”
“Because we hardly know each other.”
They’d spent his entire leave together. They’d been writing every day since. How could she say…
“What is it? What don’t you like about me? Just tell me.”
“Besides you being in Georgia?” She laughed. ”Nothing.”
She paused.
“I have class in the morning. I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”
“Sure, tomorrow,” Eric said.
He pressed the receiver against his head, listened for the click, then replaced it.
“Goodbye, Sarah.”