At a busted-window phone booth consecrated with locksmith business cards, I deposit five nickels. My coins gush onto cracked concrete. I hadn’t punched in numbers — or paid — but hear my ex-husband. “Don’tcha wanna meet up?” I hate him; I hate a bedroom minus sex. I hang up. Miracle: I can’t recall his phone number — or last name. He’s not in my address book. My nickels are rolling on their sides away from me. My purse holds no more change. I touch the payphone. A woman’s voice chirps: “Twenty-five cents, please. This phone is out of order. Please deposit twenty-five cents.”
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"Classic"
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