conversations

she holds an archaic, non-working cell phone up to her ear and walks around the living room in circles, hands touching random objects here and there. a finger on a plant leaf. her wrist on the edge of a book.

no, i actually have a daughter. not a son. nope. no son.
i have a necklace. not a bracelet. how about something else, then?
how about something, like, oh! i have to call you back.

when she puts the phone down, her just turned two year old brother picks it up and she reaches for it. he screams and she shakes her head.

i'm not done talking, yet, bubba.

he looks at her and hands it over. she drops it on the ground.

HOLD ON! she picks it up and and wipes off the back of the phone.
oh, good, you're still there. 
i have two one dollar bills. that's it. no, no, that's it. i'm going to have to call you back. 

numbers pushed. the two year old yells byyyyyyyeeeeeee. byyyyyyyyyeeeeeeeee. 
she retreats through the hallway and her voice re-enters before she does.

can you hear me? okay, good. we can do that tomorrow. no! (pause) no, i did not do it yet. i'll do it tomorrow. i don't know what you said yesterday. yes! yes, i can. i can do it all by myself. you will be proud of this. okay, no i can't, i have to call you back.

i am the stenographer sitting idly on the side, posture with purpose. i grab one end of the ticker tape and rewind it and loop it across the room, across the chandelier. i close my eyes and open the doors. listen to the wind rush over the loamy words scattered at the shore. the random machinations of her mind are unfiltered, spongy, amplified. she says them out loud without even realizing it and i know that my days witnessing the inside of her brain are numbered. that i better listen while i can.