Misdial

I have this recurring dream. In it, I am standing in a stark white room next to a bright, lemon-colored rotary dial desk phone. At least, I think it’s me. I see my hand as it reaches out to make a call. I see my curls fall next to my face as I bend over to dial – one curl wound so tight it is hard to see where it ends and the phone cord begins as I pull the handset to my face. I see my long index finger insert itself into the plastic dial to call someone. Swish. Dah, dah, dah, dah, dah. Again. Swish. Dah, dah, dah. And again. 

The girl in my dream makes it to the last number before she realizes she’s misdialed. She pushes the plastic button in the handset cradle down and releases it. She starts again. Swish. Dah, dah, dah, dah, dah. She makes it all the way to the last digit and another misdial. She tries again. Misdial. And again. Swish. Dah, dah, dah, dah, dah.

The girl gives up after the fourth misdial. She slams the handset back down into its cradle in frustration. The phone gives a quick brr-ring from the force as if willing her to keep trying. You will get the number right this time.