Jalila slumped. Two message on the home phone. Keys got dumped on the counter. The front door was sticking again. Mail strewn on the floor. The morning coffee fermenting in the spilled puddle of itself.
Beep.
Seven fortah fah pee emm.
The machine enunciated, or tried.
Hey baby, it's Alan from the bar, come hang out tonight, my band has a gig at the Grateful Bread. Nine. We'll play a Throbbing Gristle cover, cause I know you're into that... call me, 310 555 4930.
Jalila couldn't help but wonder who Baby was. Could've been a mistake. Could've been, she switched the four and the six and now Alan would sit himself down facing the door trying not to look up whenever someone Baby-shaped walked in.
Or maybe she'd been smart, not forgetful.
Maybe Alan's bandmates would yell "GET SUM" as he called another girl Baby.
Maybe she'd seen it all before.
Maybe she was done being who she'd been, the type of Baby who meets guys in bars. Baby wanted a name.
Jalila sunk into her favorite chair and thought about calling the number to find out.
...to be continued?
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