“Hello, this is Sailor Man. You might remember me from such productions as ‘Our Wedding’ or its mad-cap sequel: ‘Our Honeymoon’. If you are receiving this message, you might be my wife, although it has been a long time and I may require a photo identification to verify the veracity of this claim. Should you even remotely recall our relationship, no matter how vague, please do call me at…..”

I bit the bullet and turned off the land line months ago, during the elections, when I was being plagued by political robo-calls and collect calls from prison searching for some whackjob named Jason. And as much as I loathe cell phones, I appreciate their utility, not enough to remember to turn them on after having turned them off during class, mind you, but I appreciate them nonetheless.

I must have had the phone off since last Friday as when I turned it on this morning there were a dozen messages. Not all from Sailor, but the last one, printed for you above, was the most recent and biting.

Bad dog! Bad dog!

It’s what goes through my head when I know I’ve fucked up. Puppy dog, big as she is, cringes and shrinks magically before my eyes whenever I rebuke her. So that’s the image I have of myself when I screw up. Time is precious, any time with Sailor, even if it is on the phone, is precious too and I missed it. He’s at sea, must take advantage of any and all cell phone range.  Missed him. Again. Damn.

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