by Ronald Moran
On Friday afternoons, when my phone rings, its murky screen often says, Out of Area, or lists numbers trailing unfamiliar, exotic area codes. If answered, it may deliver a robo-message, or else live callers mangling my simple surname, one as
transparent as the skin over a girl's wrist, an image of years ago that recurs like a song-worm, or like the face of a girl I saw once when I was 14 at a summer playhouse. Now as a widower, I wonder, Is she alive, and has she had a good life? I answer it.
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