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Talk | Feb 24 2003

—Have you said anything to him?

—No.

—Are you planning to?

—Do what?

—Say anything to him.

—No. I’m not going to talk to him anymore.

—Are you just not going to talk to him or are you going to tell him you’re not going to talk to him?

—I’m not going to talk to him.

—What happens if he calls?

—What do you mean what happens?

—What are you going to say if he calls?

—Nothing. I’m going to hang up.

—What if he calls and uses a different voice?

—Why would he do that?

—Because you keep hanging up on him.

—I’ll hang up when I realize it’s him.

—What if you never realize?

—Eventually I will. Or else I’ll hang up for some other reason.

—What if he kidnaps your little girl and says he going to kill her if you don’t talk to him.

—I don’t have a little girl.

—But say you did.

—He wouldn’t do this.

—But say he did.

—I suppose I would talk to him.

—What would you say?

—I don’t know. I guess that I’m sorry it’s come to this. That I remember when we loved each other and that I don’t know what happened to change that. That sometimes, late at night, I read our old emails. That I copied them into one document, even the ones where we’re just making plans or something, even the ones that are forwards of things. That there’s this tenderness there, in the emails, and that I haven’t forgotten that tenderness and don’t think I ever can or will. Some bullshit like that, the fucker has my kid.