The Well-Known Stranger

Five.

The neon sign bathed the phone booth in soft hues of orange and pink. It was the only light that illuminated the key pad in the phone booth. Years of service had rendered the buttons smooth, making it hard for Ryan to clearly see what numbers he should press. He didn’t really need the light to know what keys to press. He’d known this number since the summer he’d turned 16. Ryan had gotten his first flip phone that summer. He’d punched the number in much faster back then.

Zero.

It had been years since Ryan had allowed himself to call this number. Almost three to be exact. He’s stood here many times. Many late nights. He and this phone booth had become close in the last three years. He always found himself back here. Late nights. Early mornings. Sometimes even in the afternoon, when he should’ve been on his lunch break, Ryan would often find himself here. Staring at the same key pad, hoping it would turn into a fortune teller. Maybe this phone booth could tell him what to do. How to fix this—

Five.

He didn’t even know if the phone number was still in service. Maybe it belonged to someone else now. Maybe he should have called sooner. Maybe he never should’ve put himself in the position of being more than a phone call away.

Three.

It made sense. Three years is a long time. Lots of things can change in three years. Lots of things had changed in three years. Ryan had never felt incline to change his number, but Ryan had never felt inclined to anything that might have benefited him.

Nine.

What if a stranger picks up? What would Ryan even say?

“Sorry, I was hoping you would be someone else.”

Maybe the stranger would share the same sentiment. Maybe not.

Maybe the stranger would indulge him for a few minutes, at least until the phone booth demanded more coins.

Maybe the stranger would tell him not to call back.

He wouldn’t blame them. He wouldn’t want him to call back either.

Five.

Maybe Ryan should face the truth. The truth that hovers over him, much like the neon sign. The truth that his psyche half hopes for— but the other half of him hates.

Three.

No matter who is on the other end of the phone, they’ll be a stranger to him. He’d always know how they take their coffee — three creams, no sugar, he’d always know how they fold their socks — neatly wrapped together, but haphazardly thrown in a drawer, he’d always know how they hate stopping to get gas —“Thank God for AAA”, and he’d always know that they hate waking up before —

Seven.

A lot can happen in three in years. And nothing at all, if you let it slip away.

Maybe Ryan had let it slip away. Maybe he’d wanted too much, by wanting too little. Maybe he’d thought what they’d had was perfect how it was before— before all of—

Seven.

What if this stranger doesn’t want to talk to him anymore?Maybe the past belongs in the past. Three years is a long time.

Ryan isn’t the only one that didn’t reach out. He isn’t the only one to be blamed.

Maybe this stranger should be the one calling. Maybe the stranger is the one that should feel all of this.

All of this hurt. All of this— this. Ryan doesn’t even know what “this” is anymore. “This” stopped being just one thing when the six months mark came to pass. “This” became looking over his shoulder in coffee shops, taking the long way home because it crossed their favorite thrift store, and watching videos on how to tie his tie because Ryan was responsible for it all now. “This” became so much more when Ryan realized he’d lost the only person that mattered to him, while trying to preserve the one’s that didn’t —and don’t—come close. He traded what might’ve been the Gardens of Babylon for a comfortable life. Working Monday through Friday. Going to the bars on Saturday. Thanksgiving and Christmas with his family. Struggling to sleep at night, but not wanting to get up in the morning.

Six.

Ryan’s finger hovered over the call button. He hated this part. He always hated this part. He could press the button, let the strings of fate pull him in whatever direction they desire. Or, he could wait. He could listen to the phone buzzing until it reset. He knew that if it reset, he could still have a chance. A possibility. But, if he pressed that button, fate would have nothing to do it with it. It would just be Ryan and his stranger.

BEEP—BEEP—BEEP

Fate had decided for him. Maybe the phone booth had become a fortune teller after all. “Not likely” it had said.

Ryan hung the phone up and took a deep breath. He stepped out of the phone booth. As he turned to walk away, the neon sign illuminated an etching on the side of the worn-out booth.

R&W

The etching had seen better days. Ryan wouldn’t have even known what it said, had he not seen it the day it was carved. He thought briefly of the memory. There had been many memories at this phone booth, located near his old school bus stop. But none of those memories stung quite the same.

He pressed a finger to the carving, for just a moment. Maybe fate would be kinder next time. Maybe he would be braver. Maybe tomorrow.

Ryan turning his back to the phone booth, walking away. His eyes caught on a lit up bank sign across the street from the phone booth, circling through the same information over and over again. The temperature. The time. The date. It paused on the date for just a moment. June 26, 2015.

And maybe—just maybe— a well-known stranger is sitting rigidly on their couch, staring out of their window. Terrified that the phone might ring— equally terrified that it won’t.

And maybe the stranger knows it won’t. It won’t ring now, or in another three years. It will likely never ring. The stranger knows this. But, the stranger still waits. Even, as he sees the all-familiar figure walk away. Even, when the figure is no longer illuminated by the neon sign, the well- known stranger waits patiently, sipping on his hot coffee— three creams, no sugar.