Two words. Six letters. And a space. Black and white copy reflects into her retinas as her brain computes the screen-scene before her eyes.
He wants something. What is it? Or does he even want anything? Perhaps I am just reading too much into it. But it does not make any sense. Or maybe I am being a girl, after all, over-analysis of every vowel and consonant and intonation and fluctuation beyond cremation, is it not my right to think that it does not make any sense?!
How can something so simple turn into an utter disaster inside of my head thinks Leda. Everyone is otherwise engaged in real social activity which makes a change from the rest. I must rely upon myself. Judgement of sound mind. Oh-my-god-what-do-I-do?! Leda pauses, as if in an epiphany of serenity. Then screams a high-pitched and very shrill Aiieee!
Ha! Idiot! Call him, of course! Stupid girl! But straight away? Or do I leave it awhile? He is out after all. At dinner. That is usually the equivalent of the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the hotel door. DO NOT PASS GO. Straight to jail. The jail of not knowing what to do.
The phone vibrates. Mini heart attack. No, it’s just another social network media notification. Breathes. I am a normal person. I am an adult. Ha! Really?! Yes, really! Not a crazy. How can two words send terror into the pit of my diaphragm suffocating my lungs then?
It is akin to that feeling just before setting foot on a rollercoaster, just before an aeroplane takes off at what feels like supersonic speed and like in movies, just before death witnessing each miraculously-remembered-millionth memory-scene in minute flashback detail.
Palpitations.
Butterflies.
Heart in mouth type.
Leda sits on her bed clasping her iPad2. Pah! Social media? Social mess more like! Leda diligently types the number into her iPhone as the touchscreen numbers play musical chairs. It dials. Argh! No! I didn’t want to call! I just wanted to save the number! Cancel! Cancel! Cancel!
Leda pushes the call-cancel button as if she was trying to detonate an explosive, microscopically tiny beads of sweat perspire from the pores under her long Egyptian fringe and body temperature shoots up to sky-high levels. Phew! The call did not go through.
Leda opens her bedroom window, stares at the phone number nonsensically. Pinches her arm. Yes, this is real! She puts the phone away. Switches iPod dock to ON. Music blasts from surround-sound speakers. Leda attempts to drown out the image of the screen from her mind and tries not to think about calling. Eats yoghurt instead. Mmm, this is yum. But he said “Call me”. Damn. Thought about it.
Oh-kay! Fine. I shall call you. Dagnammit. Dials. Silence. Oh-my-god! It’s not ringing. Further silence. Leda looks at iPhone checking the digits were input correctly. Screen still says dialling. Silence. Throat dries up as Leda manages to maintain courage, bravery and calmness to speak. Receiver clicks. Leda hears a voice. Heart stops beating. The voice of a male.
The voice of a mail. Recorded message.
SHIIIIIIIT! I’m not leaving a voicemail!
Leda composes an SMS message and deletes it several times before deciding on one short sentence.
I had a nanosecond of control, all for nothing. The waiting game commences. Alas, I return to the wreckage that is my mind. Phone vibrates. Heart explodes through ribcage. On the verge of fainting.
Another social network media notification...
This is just not healthy.
