Presumed Guilty

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He called at ten o’clock, the same time he always did.

Even before Miranda answered it, she knew it was him. She also knew that if she ignored it the phone would keep on ringing and ringing, until the sound would drive her crazy. Miranda paced the bedroom, thinking, I don’t have to answer it. I don’t have to talk to him. I don’t owe him a thing, not a damn thing.

The ringing stopped. In the sudden silence she held her breath, hoping that this time he would relent, this time he would understand she’d meant what she told him.

The renewed jangling made her start. Every ring was like sandpaper scraping across her raw nerves.

Miranda couldn’t stand it any longer. Even as she picked up the receiver she knew it was a mistake. “Hello?”

“I miss you,” he said. It was the same whisper, resonant with the undertones of old intimacies shared, enjoyed.

“I don’t want you to call me anymore,” she said.

“I couldn’t help it. All day I’ve wanted to call you. Miranda, it’s been hell without you.”

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