Disconnect

06:45
The alarm rings. My hand flails in the dark for the phone on the countertop, to turn it off. One eye opens crookedly, as if remembering the existence of light, and peeks across the bed to the edge of the screen. No messages.
07:00
The second alarm rings. This time, the hand knows where the sound comes from, and turns it off in a second. The erstwhile lazy eye betrays me though, and hoping against hope looks again at the screen. No messages. I get up, and get ready for the day.
7:45
The hand, smelling faintly of aftershave, grabs the shirt from the hangar. The shoes are scrubbed and worn, as the eyes look askance at where the phone is charging. No messages.
9:30
The tummy, quite full from breakfast, waddles merrily on its way to work. It flutters as the lady at the security check asks for the phone while it passes through the kiosk. It sinks when it reaches the other side. No messages.
11:30
The sound of a message. A camera couldn't tell if the hand reached out faster than the eye turned, but it was clear that disbursers of an instant pre-approved loan were the only ones who appreciated his existence.
14:00
Lunch passes. The lips faff to the boss, explaining why they're behind on work. And the phone beeps. "Not now", says the skin. "Not this moment when I mustn't", it tries to bargain. But a beeping phone must be read, and the angry boss shouts to the face, storms away, looking a distinct hue of purple, as the eyes cloud for a second, delete the message, and get back to work.
17:00
The sound of a call. Gingerly, the hands reach out and answer. The ears hear the sound of mother, asking again when I would be home.
19:30
I pass the bridge on the way back home. A movement catches a corner of the eyes. They look across over the rails, and find nothing. Probably a rat. They look at the phone. No messages.
They look back at the rails. The distance to the ground must be about 6 metres. About 2 seconds to hit the ground. About 5 to climb over the ledge. About 40 seconds to the train passing beneath the bridge when the ears first hear it approaching.
The legs want to go home, but the eyes holds them back. The hands reach out to the ledge. It is cold from the evening rain, like her body the last time they held her. The eyes close tight, shutting out the memory. The legs step closer. The train draws near.
19:31
The eyes look down. The legs find themselves on the way back home. The hands reach inside the pocket and take out the phone. No messages. The tear hits the screen where there should have been words.

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