Phone stalker

Priscilla gets these calls every few nights now. The voice comes low through the receiver, unfolding itself straight into her ear. He talks filth. Lingers over every filthy syllable. She listens without speaking, thumb hovering above the red button. Last time we were over, the phone rang exactly the same way. She picked up on the second ring and let him start, let the sound of his breath fill the room. We sat on the couch in our heels and silk slips, legs tangled, giggling behind our hands while she mouthed everything he said. We already know the script. The lines about what he wants to put inside her, how slow, how deep. None of it lands. We like women. Real women. The kind who wear our perfume and leave our shade of lipstick around their nipples. The kind who bite when we ask. Eventually the breathing on the line grew impatient. Priscilla said nothing, only breathed back, soft as a kiss. When she finally hung up, the silence felt louder than anything he’d tried. We laughed, but low, because somewhere under the laughter we knew this man would keep searching for a woman who wants exactly what he wants to give. And we will keep laughing, because it will never be us.