the cushioned thunk of the manual lock
eased from a hot vinyl car door

the joyful dance of a twitching hair
in the corner of a classroom filmstrip

the hushed tic-tic of the rotary dial
as it slides its way back from the 9.

She brought it up for a closer inspection. Nothing else in her father's life had garnered as much attention. Black, as black as...

Her grandmother's telephone. Black, rotary dial, heavy, too big for her to hold by herself. She remembered summers at her grandmother's, calling home on the weekend, her grandma holding the receiver up for her. When no one was around she would lay the receiver on the table and press her ear to it while she played with the rotary. Chit chit chit. She would compare numbers. 0-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-0. Chit chit chit. 5-4-2-2-9 she would spell out her name. 3-6-4, 8-4-4-3-7, 7-8-6-7, she would spell out words she knew.

With great clarity was she reminded of those long lazy summers playing with her grandparents. Learning to garden, watching soaps, accidentally calling someone far away. For a moment she was happy. It was almost enough to give her hope.

She picked up the revolver again. Two sets of emotions doing battle in her head. She remembered the sound of her named played out on the rotary dial and it was almost enough for her.

Almost.

'what the hell is that noise?'

'huh?'

'the ringing! you didn't hear it?'

'yeah, it was the kitchen timer. the pot stickers are done.'

'oh, i thought you installed a rotary phone in this place to go with the 20s decor.'

'nope.'

'oh. hm. you should totally write about this for rotary dial day! that's today, right?'

'right.'

'write about how your friend tsilli mistook your kitchen timer for a rotary dial phone.'

'ha. ok.'

- an actual conversation that took place in my kitchen four hours ago.