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She'll Call

Even though I put the cell phone in the drawer with the garlic, she’ll call.

Even though I’ve sprinkled the phone with the ashes of the dead at midnight in the garden, she’ll call.

Even though I’ve walked widdershins around the phone thrice while chanting the backward incantation forwards, she’ll call.

Even though I’ve written her name in blood and burnt it with the dried leaves of a fig tree, even though I’ve hewn a box from the oak of an upturned casket to put the phone in, even though the one hundred and eleven candles made from the boiled fat of the recent dead that spelled out her name have long since burned out, she will call.

And it’s really annoying because I, like, broke up with her weeks ago. Maybe I should just change my number.

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