A Phone Call

Tonight my room looked exactly like every other Sunday evening in M. Orderly in a slightly depressing way.

Homework stacked properly.
School bag ready.
Rain against the windows.
Radiators making strange metallic noises like old ships dying slowly somewhere inside the walls.

Then M. called. And suddenly the entire room changed temperature. That’s the strange thing about certain voices. They arrive carrying geography with them. I could hear the sea almost immediately through the phone line somehow. Or maybe not literally. Maybe just through him. He had spent the afternoon near the harbor helping with a sailing competition and sounded calmer than anybody in Milan has sounded in weeks. Wind in his voice. Cigarettes probably. That lazy Genovese rhythm where conversations stretch naturally instead of fighting schedules. Meanwhile I was sitting surrounded by Latin exercises and existential fatigue.

Then later he told me the sea was violent today.
Dark blue-grey.
Cold.

I closed my eyes while he spoke and could practically smell G.

Salt.
Rain.
Coffee.
Smoke from bars near the port.

Distance is strange because sometimes you barely notice it and sometimes a simple phone call destroys you emotionally for twenty minutes afterward. After we hung up the room became quiet again too quickly.

Only the radiator ticking.
Homework waiting.
Milan returning.

PHONE CALL.
Remember me,
Eclipse