“…is that you, darling?” she asked but the phone hadn’t rung. Not yet. The phone in her fourth floor apartment (no elevator) didn’t ring often, and it wouldn’t ring for another sixteen days. “Hello? Is that you, my darling?”
To tell the story this
way, however, is probably unfair to her.
She wasn’t regarded by those how knew her as weird or loony. Melanie Hastings Lewis worked as a paralegal,
drove a car, and paid her bills on time.
There was nothing especially noteworthy about her life. She had friends and went on dates like other
young women.
But there was this… Whenever he would call, Melanie Hastings Lewis, who was so normal in every other respect, when he would telephone, she always answered sixteen days earlier.
“…is that you, darling?”
***
I found the rotary phone in this and yesterday's photo in our local thrift store. All kinds of treasures there.
But there was this… Whenever he would call, Melanie Hastings Lewis, who was so normal in every other respect, when he would telephone, she always answered sixteen days earlier.
“…is that you, darling?”
***
I found the rotary phone in this and yesterday's photo in our local thrift store. All kinds of treasures there.
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