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Wrong Number
By
Scott Roberts
The ringing of the telephone roused Michael from a dreamless sleep. He rolled across the sag in the mattress that until the previous month had been occupied by his live-in girlfriend and squinted at the illuminated numbers on his alarm clock. The time was 3am, way too early for someone to be calling him with good news. The phone rang again. He fell back on the sheets and closed his eyes. The coolness of the sheets reminded him of his former girlfriend and the pleasant warmth her body generated after they made love. Whenever he woke in the middle of the night, he noticed her absence, the lack of mass and heat radiating from her side of the bed. The phone rang again. He picked up the receiver, croaked out a hoarse "Hello?" and waited.
"Hello? Hello?" A fragile voice floated from the earpiece, flustered and breathless. "Is Richard there?
It was a woman’s voice, young and scared, with a palpable quaver of anticipation. She needs to talk with this Richard guy before she loses her nerve, he thought. "Why do you want to speak with Richard?" he softly asked. Now that he was awake he wanted to hear more.
"Do I have the correct number?" she replied, sounding ready to hang up. "This is Bianca," she whispered, with an inflection he immediately found sexy. "I need to speak with Richard, it's important."
Her accent was Canadian, maybe Calgary or Vancouver. He liked her voice, smooth and dark with a hint of some recent hurt, possibly from love. "No Richard here." he replied. There was a long silence at the other end of the line followed by muffled sounds of the phone being jostled and moved about. For a brief moment he imagined that she had given the phone to someone else, but then she spoke again and he heard the mournfulness in her voice.
"Oh," she said, "I see. When he comes home, would you tell him I called? Tell him Bianca called."
"You don’t understand, it’s the number you dialed, there's no Richard here." "Who are you?" she asked. "Are you his roommate?"
"I don't know Richard." The words stumbled rapidly out of his mouth. "I'm a wrong number. You woke me. It's still pretty early here in San Francisco and I was asleep." He fell silent and listened for her voice, her breath, anything from the other end of the phone. Then he heard a sigh, and more silence before she finally spoke.
"I'm across the bay in Berkeley," she said, with a voice like sad music. "Near the campus. It's early here too."
"Have you been up all night?"
"Yes," she replied, letting her weariness show.
"You were out on a date and had an argument during dinner." He pictured her with long legs and a sad, sly smile.
"Yes." Her voice quavered again and he knew she was about to confide in him. "He left me afterwards, on our way to go dancing."
She paused and Michael allowed himself to imagine the woman on the phone dancing. Swing? Tango? Mosh Pit? He couldn't tell.
"He was pushing me for…" her voice trailed off.
Michael finished the sentence for her."... a commitment?"
She laughed a nervous laugh. "Yes, for a commitment."
"I'm sure you'll make up and get back together."
"Maybe." There was a pause before she continued. "I don't know if I care anymore."
It's possible, he thought. Maybe she doesn't care. "What kind of dancing do you like?"
"You know, all kinds. And you? Do you take your fiancée dancing?"
"My fiancée?"
"I thought so, a single man,” she said, gently flirting with him. “I didn't think you'd be talking with me if your girl was curled up next to you."
"Well, I wish the right person was here with me now.”
"Me too," she answered.
"Come to The City," he said, half jokingly. "I'll be your right person."
She paused again before speaking. "What's your name?"
He heard the faint beginnings of interest in her voice. "Michael," he answered. "What's your phone number?"
"It's been a long night Michael. I like your voice. You’ve cheered me up."
"You woke me up," he replied.
"You've been very patient."
His pulse quickened. "So when will we get together?"
"Michael, this conversation was a accident."
“It’s fate.”
“I don’t know about that.”
"Take a chance," he crooned into the phone.
Her voice softened. "These fantasies never work out."
"Bianca, we'll go dancing."
"I'm just not sure," she purred, waiting to be convinced.
It was early April and they were sitting at a small table outside a cafe.
Arriving, Bianca had immediately pulled out the newspaper, her bored brown eyes scanning the weekend section, trying to decide what they could do on their night out.
Michael studied her face, still not quite believing his good fortune in meeting such a beauty. She was of Italian descent, born and raised in the suburbs of Vancouver. He adored her long brown hair, high cheekbones, aristocratic nose and those wonderful lips that were her most stunning feature. He loved those lips, so full and red.
After a few more phone conversations she had agreed to go out with him. On their first date they met at an old beatnik cafe just off Broadway. He brought her a bouquet of roses. She arrived late, walking into the room with the easy grace of a woman confident of more than just her physical appearance. They ordered drinks and immediately lost track of time, becoming immersed in an intense conversation about what it was like to be single in The City. She was pre-med at Berkeley.
“I like the power physician’s have in our culture. People listen to them.” She watched his face carefully, waiting for a reaction. “I like it when men listen to me.”
“Bianca, you’re an intelligent woman who any man would find easy to listen to.” He picked up her hand and smiled playfully. “And so goddamn beautiful it hurts my eyes to keep looking at you.”
Midnight found them huddled together in the back of a small, family style Italian Restaurant on the edge of Chinatown. They ate voraciously and talked till the restaurant closed. He flagged a cab and they headed back to his apartment, necking frantically on the backseat. Once inside his flat, they made quick, impulsive love on his kitchen floor before slowly fucking their way across his apartment, reaching the bed sometime before sunrise. She never again mentioned Richard.
They had quickly slipped into their own, private dating ritual, meeting Friday evenings after he got off work at their favorite Grant Street bar.
They'd have a few drinks, relax and try to decide what to do. She liked the South Of Market neighborhood where they could have dinner, see a band and go dancing before taking the short cab ride to his apartment at the edge of the Castro.
The first weeks together were fantastic; they tried new restaurants, went to plays, live music and exotic after-hours dance clubs. Sex was frequent and hot.
He introduced her to his friends, told her everything about himself; about his crazy family back in New York, his teenage summers working in the Catskills, career ambitions, and his desire for a family. But she never opened up with him, seemingly uncomfortable whenever he asked about her personal life. Once he inquired about her parents and she murmured something about ‘daddy issues” and quickly changed the subject. After a few short weeks, the reckless passion of their first couplings slipped away, replaced by something more routine and mechanical.
The familiar chirp of Bianca's cell phone broke his reverie. She quickly fished it from her purse and turning away, greeted the caller in a low, unintelligible voice. He could tell from her body language that she was enjoying the conversation. She was spending more and more time on the phone and not for the first time he got the feeling he was intruding on something private.
Tonight she seemed especially remote and he suddenly had a premonition that this evening was to be their last. The thought of losing her made him sad. He liked her intelligence, her aggression, her lean, dark body, but the distance between them was getting impossible to ignore. As he watched her talk on the phone he contemplated making the break immediately, telling her it wasn't working out and they should put an end to it. He imagined getting up from the table and walking away, just leaving her at the cafe yakking on her damn cell phone. He’d drop in on friends he hadn’t visited with recently or maybe rent a movie and spend the night at home.
"Sorry Michael, but I had to take that call." She slipped the phone into the pocket of her leather jacket and looked closely at him. Her face was flushed from the phone conversation. "A friend just called to remind me the Kulture Kings are performing in the Haight tonight and she wants to see them. I told her we'd meet her there, OK?"
He’d never met any of her friends. "You decided for us?" he asked. They always discussed their evening plans before making a decision.
She looked at him, annoyed. "I thought you told me you liked this band."
He was flattered she remembered; the band was a favorite of his. "Well, yes, I do like them, but we usually talk over what we're going to do." We haven’t yet broken up, he thought to himself, she might still want to give our relationship a chance. Anything could happen.
The brown eyes staring directly at him remained flat and bored looking. "Do you want to go or not?"
They were at the metro stop, waiting for the J Church trolley to take them to the Upper Haight. The boarding platform was filled with the usual Friday evening assortment of city travelers: tourists, couples out on dates, businessmen, late working secretaries and several tired-looking service workers. Two thugs roamed the edges of the crowd, looking for an opportunity to make trouble. When the trolley finally arrived, Michael steered Bianca to a seat near the front of the car next to a window. Sitting down beside her, he placed a protective arm across her shoulders. She ignored him, instead staring out the window at the now deserted platform while the trolley pulled out of the station.
Ten minutes later, the train began reducing speed as it climbed upward to the surface. There was a sudden jolt and the light outside the windows changed, indicting they were now above ground and traveling on nighttime streets. The trolley crept down the center of a narrow street lined with old Victorian houses. Fog from the nearby ocean rolled in across the neighborhood, blanketing everything in a passionless gray. At the first intersection, the car stopped.
Suddenly Bianca grabbed his forearm and motioned out the window. Ahead, a young couple was standing next to the shuttered windows of a tailor’s shop. The girl was leaning against a metal security fence. She was short, with dirty blond hair and a full figure, ripe and good-looking in a sexually available way. She was wearing a thin, red party dress that was too light for such a chilly evening. She held the dress bunched up around her waist. Underneath she was naked, her white skin flashing in the darkness. Michael tried to see the girl's face but it was too dark.
The trolley lurched forward and slowly began to pick up speed, drawing closer to the couple. Michael glanced at the man. He was standing in front of the girl, his pants down around his knees and while Michael watched, he roughly grabbed the girl and spun her around. Bracing herself against the fence, the girl bent forward and waited. The trolley was moving faster, almost parallel to the couple as the man positioned himself behind the girl. His mouth was open, as if he were about to speak, but then they were both gone, the trolley car now past them.
Michael could feel Bianca’s fingernails digging into his forearm. "Bianca, did you see that?" There was a husky thickness to his voice he’d never heard before.
She didn't respond immediately, then shook her head. "I couldn’t do that in public," she murmured, releasing his arm and ending the conversation. She turned and gazed out the window into the passing darkness while her hand, now resting on Michael’s leg, began to slowly stroke his inner thigh.
The club was overflowing with loud music, strobing arcs of white light and sweaty, gyrating dancers. Bianca’s friend was a no-show. From the first note the band struck, Bianca moved with a frenzy of sexual energy that Michael couldn't hope to match, her hair flying, hips churning to the beat, her dark, low cut dress now damp and clinging to her body, accentuating the white fullness of her breasts. They danced without a break for what seemed hours, until both were slick with sweat. Then suddenly she was gone, lost in the crowd.
Michael looked for her, feeling increasingly uncomfortable and out of place. Twice he searched the club from top to bottom before finally, far across the restless dance floor, he spotted her surrounded by a group of men. She was dancing alone, her ass wiggling beneath the shimmering, thin fabric of her dress. Michael pushed his way through the crowded dance floor finally reaching her side. She moved next to him, hips pushing against his in time with the beat. Her eyes flickered across the faces of the other men before she turned away and pulled Michael back to the packed dance floor. The tempo of the music was rough and aggressive and brought out a restless sexual tension that soon inhabited every gesture, every movement she made. She became whirlwind of color and motion and Michel frantically danced with her until the early morning hours when the club finally closed.
Outside on the sidewalk in the cold night air, Michael flagged a cab. They went to his apartment, riding together in silence. She suggested they shower before going to bed and Michael quickly agreed. Standing behind her under the hot water, his legs shook with desire while he delicately kissed and massaged her long, dark back. He tried to hold her, to pull her closer to him, but there was no passion in her body and he despaired of ever moving her again. A part of him just wanted to climb into bed and fall asleep, but instead they turned on the television, bickering over what to watch.
Two hours later, the old black and white movie was almost over. Bianca sat at the end of the bed wearing a silk robe and nothing else, the remains of a pencil-thin joint pressed between her lips. As she turned to face Michael, the folds of her robe fell open.
"You want any more?" she asked, holding out what remained of the tiny joint.
Michael lay sprawled across the mattress, jittery with fatigue and desire. The flickering glow of the television was the only light in the room. He stared at her full breasts bathed in the fractured light of the television and nodded slowly. "Maybe one more hit."
"What time is it?" she asked, restless and unable to find a comfortable position on the bed.
Movie credits were rolling across the television screen. "Late," Michael replied.
She motioned to his watch on the night table. "Is this accurate?" she asked.
“Maybe we should go to sleep,” he said.
"I'll call and check the time," she offered, slipping off the edge of the bed. She picked up the receiver of the phone on his night table and sat down on the bed next to him facing the television. Hip resting against his leg, she first dialed for the time, and then in rapid succession a series of other numbers.
Michael ignored her, engrossed in the beginning of another movie on the television. He’d seen it before. Boy meets girl. Boy and girl fall in love. There’s a complication followed by first a misunderstanding and then an unforeseen twist but it all works out in the end and they live happily ever after. He studied Bianca’s narrow back. He wished their relationship was that simple.
She continued trying to reach someone on the phone, her hip now tapping rhythmically against his thigh. Whom could she be trying to reach at this hour, he wondered, glancing back at the television. Finally, someone answered.
"Hello?" she said seductively into the phone. Her body came alive as she listened to the voice on the other end. She began to roughly stroke Michael’s stomach. “Hello?” she repeated breathlessly and her hand slipped inside his briefs.
Wide-awake now, Michael sat up in bed next to her. She continued rubbing against him while murmuring in a whispery voice to the stranger on the phone. Michael listened to her breathing quicken. Then, he moved closer, his hands sliding past the folds of her robe, slowly guiding it from her shoulders. He could feel her flesh vibrating with anticipation. She twisted her head towards him and he briefly glimpsed something wild and strange, something almost like love, in her eyes. Turning away, he roughly shoved her naked body across the bed and forcefully mounted her, careful not to jar the receiver from her full, red lips.
"Hello, this is Bianca," she moaned softly into the phone. "I need to speak with Richard, it's important."
Copyright © 2007 Scott Roberts
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