Justin and I were making love, and the phone rang, and we were nude and in the heat of sex and didn’t care. The phone rang again. Comcast has been harassing us for dropping them—the crazy customer service lady called us this morning nine times—so I made a joke—“I’m scared”—and the phone rang again. I orgasmed.
Justin came.
The phone rang.
We fell asleep.
* * * * *
We slept through the hospital visit—Mom had had a concussion—and the police—did she remember the criminal’s license plate number?—and her return home. I awoke to no one, and then to Justin’s voice down the hall, low and tight. Then Dad’s deep drone. Justin. Dad. Mom’s hiccup-talk—Irish and jittery. I dressed.
“Hey?” I said. Everyone looked happy. Relieved? Excited, I decided. Justin and Dad were lying on their backs on the bed, staring across the room at Mom. Mom sat, her neck tense, in her stuffed-chair. Her lip quivered.
“What you guys doing?”
Dad told me: they were talking. Mom’s neck-vein twitched.
A car had, I didn’t know then, just sped out of a parking lot and crashed into oncoming traffic—crashed into Mom. Both cars were crushed. Two men—the crazy driver and his passenger—jumped out of their smashed car and into another and sped off.
Mom sits in her stuffed-chair, smiling now. We’re all here, in her room, watching her.
*Mom = Justin's Mom, Dad = Justin's Dad.
I once answered the phone during sex. It was my phone-sex girl. She heard Meg's groans, I had to go, it was awkward.
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