Brett Garcia Myhren's ''TELEMARKETER''
I'm reading on the couch when she calls, asks for me by name. I smile at her scripted intimacy, imagine her cubicle with photos of pets, the long bend of light on her lacquered nails.
"Listen to this," I reply," David kissed the soft inner banks of women’s thighs."
"Oh, there's more," I say, "Thighs like loamy earth that cup the rivers, or lilies blooming in rose and mint."
"Is this a bad time for you, sir?"
"Is it for you? Tell me something," I insist. "Tell me anything."
A quiet unfolds between us as though we'd spent our breath on withering arguments or lost it in the scented air of sweat.
Finally she says, "I'm in Lincoln, Nebraska. Outside, leaves are turning in the cold."
I wish you happy.
All my love,