Arkansas, 1985
Like any other Sunday, he bought the newspaper
on his way back from church, and after lunch
he spread it out on the small bed in the room
he shared with a friend. There was a story
about a new church, an address, a number.
He turned the page facedown, tucked it under
the others, afraid the roommate would see. Later
he wrote a short letter: I think I might be—.
My parents wouldn’t—. I don’t have anyone to—.
He got a reply, recognized the return address
in the campus mailroom, waited until he was
alone. There was a man’s name, a number.
He hid the letter in a book on the shelf
above his desk. He waited. He doesn’t remember
how long he waited, the letter hidden. One
afternoon, when no one was in, he walked down
the hall to the dorm phone at the corner
of two corridors. There was a chair. He didn’t
sit. He called the number. Hello? He hung up.
He stood there a moment, listening.
There was a radio going, somewhere. To change
this lonely life. Foreigner. I want to know
what love is. It was so quiet, he could hear
every word. He picked it up, dialed again.
