I stand on my balcony in the September night,
a warm breeze blowing soothing moist air in my face,
stirring the ends of my hair.
I look out at the stars, down at the city lights, listening to the crickets,
pointedly ignoring the chirping phone.
I imagine you, confident at first that you'll be able to talk your way back into my good graces,
then condescending, then worried, then angry.
The phone dies in mid-chirp, and starts again.
I turn off the ringer so I can be alone with my thoughts.
You'll want me to reassure you that I love you, that I won't leave you.
I'm not like other men, you told me a thousand times.
I've heard it before.
The crickets chirp, and I'm reminded of the phone, of you.
I take a swig of my beer.
I wonder if I looked in all those lighted windows
if I would find a happy couple.
When I turn on the ringer, the phone chirps as insistently as the crickets.
I walk back outside and count the rings till I lose track,
until the phone is indistinguishable from the crickets.
My beer is empty,
and I let the bottle drop from my fingers and smash to the pavement below.

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