Seven years later…

Seven years later, his number is still on my speed-dial. Then we couldn't go seven hours without speaking to each other, catching up, cooing, kvetching, comiserating, conspiring. And now, seven years since we've spoken at all, and I remain one button from that seven-digit lifeline. I brushed it accidentally yesterday, and discovered that on one day during the preceding 2,000 or so, the phone had been disconnected, long enough or for some reason such that there was no forwarding number relayed by the voice of the electronic lady on the other end of the line.

From this, we can gather many lessons:

• My cheap, discount department store phone has lasted a remarkable seven-plus years, a miracle in this age of disposable appliances.


• I am a marathon procrastinator, refusing to expend even the minimal effort of pressing the three keys necessary to consign a disused number to oblivion.


• Denial is a powerful thing, capable of maintaining the sole, tenuous digital thread to a relationship long dissolved longer in fact than most accountants advise retaining check stubs.

Directory assistance was no help but, then, there is no 411 for matters of the heart. "Heart" is not a concept with which the phone company is acquainted.

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