I will look at the same post a dozen or so times and wonder if you’ll ever know the actual number. It terrifies me.

“Thank you for calling Panera Bread, this is Katie.”

“Hi Katie, is Eugia working?”

“I’m sorry, who?”

“Never mind, I think I have the wrong number.”

“Did you say Telulah?”

“No, Eugia. E-U-G-I-A…”

(Chrissy darling! Chrissy! she would shriek with delight. The most genuine smile. Her skin, warm-toned like the almonds she kept in a zip-lock bag—raw, unsalted, chewier than I liked. She was the first vegan I ever met. She’d share her soy nuts and say Yummy! like a child. But we were children. Driven in her dark green Oldsmobile, worn beige interior, hands clenched ten and two. She’d play Fiona Apple and sing “Sullen Girl” pointedly at me.)

“Oh, I’m sorry, no one by that name works here.”

“It’s okay! I think I have the wrong number.”

“Does she work at Panera?”

(She used to open the store at seventeen. Twenty years ago, now. She said her menstrual cramps would make her throw up. In sweater vests, she’d clumsily carry around her viola’s case and set it down gently next to her, lips pursed, eyes wild. “What are we reading? Wittgenstein?”)

“I think I have the wrong number, I’m sorry. Have a good night!”

—

“Your call has been forwarded to voicemail. The person you’re trying to reach is unavailable. At the tone, please record your message. When you have finished recording, you may hang up.”

“Hi, my name is Chrissy. Well, you’d know my name, I think, by the sound of my voice, if this is Eugia. If this isn’t Eugia, please disregard this voicemail. But if this is Eugia? Please call me. My number is XXX-XXX-XXXX. I’d love to talk to you.”

(Digitally, she exists no where. I pick my book back up and try to let the words soften the pain of missing someone who was once so dear to me. I feel like I took her for granted and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to find her.)

_{^{(Daily Writing 077)}}