Hi, I'm Genevieve. I work at a phone sex chatline. I monitor for "quality" and kick off people who are too dirty. Because there is a line. I enforce it.
Dirty people call in. Some aren't as dirty as others. These are their stories...
2002:February:5
Are we here again? How did we get here again? Is this really happening? When did I slip? I didn't even see the dip in the earth. But I have fallen again. Skinned, bone peeking out. A rough and constant wound. Sore. Aching. Like my heart when I watch him sleep. Like my hands when I am near yet cannot, will not, should not touch him.
He says he wants to be alone. He says he misses me. He comes. He leaves. He stays. He runs. He walks away. Perfect balance. Not so much as a stumble. He says he is hurting too. That this isn't easy for him. He knows I probably don't believe that. But it's true. I can't help finding it hard to believe. I don't know what to believe. I am told not to doubt.
Not to waver. Yet he does not do the same.
I wish there was a way to take a picture of my damaged heart-like the cancerous lungs on packs of cigarettes. This is your heart. This is your heart in love. (sound of egg sizzling in a skillet) Any questions?
Oh you assume, you assume things are the same. He assumes this. Without asking he gets into position. Like he owns it. Like it's his. And it was. Is. I think. This is warm, soft but my heart is cold. My eyes dry. I am angry? I am tired.
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