You’re home? I thought you’d gone away for the week-end.
You did not answer the phone the last two nights, I thought you were gone.
Friday, I called late, Saturday too.
I’m home. All day (neglect to mention that B and I had a date already).
I sent you a book and a long letter. Did you get them?
Not yet (kind of not true: I got them but did not open the package; now that I hear there is a “long letter” I am even less anxious to open the package).
I decided that since you don’t call, I’d write you a long letter. About your lack of communicativeness.
Thanks. (didn’t we just talk? Oh no, I let a week go by. Darn.)
So anything exciting to tell me?
No, not really. It's hot. I'm working. Same old.
You’re not sick or anything? You know health can be precarious. Bubbles start bursting, things go wrong, if not today then tomorrow.
I’ll be on the lookout for bubbles bursting.
And so on. I can offer up my day as evidence that one can actually have this sort of non-conversation for well over an hour. Really.
Day thus far:
Date with B.
Excitement at the kitchen sink.