A Minute of Life

the phone rings but he doesn't pick it up. it's something he's always wanted to do, to sit and listen to the phone ring, to hear the click of the answering machine and his own voice. he would always get to the third ring and give up, too afraid to miss someone with something important to say. this time he makes it past the third ring and whoever was calling gives up and the room is quiet again. he sits on the end of the couch, his right side leaning up against the armrest. it was pure-white in the furniture store, with little raised swirls colored only with the slightest tinge of cream. it looks comfortable but it doesn't give enough to the weight of his body. it's texture is too unforgiving. sierra loved it in the store. she leapt on it and laughed and said it would work well with his one dark-stained table. her sapphire eyes seemed to jump and sparkle against the white fabric and her light-blue dress and he bought the couch, wanting to replay that moment again and again in the gentle, early morning light, both of them holding softly steaming mugs of coffee and sighing. but months of sitting and the little spills of food and drink had turned his side from ice-white to a clouded pearl, sagging gently in the middle. sierra's side remained pristine and pure and untouched.