The wind blows harshly against my face; the cold, mobile air moves against my cheeks in haste, stinging and slightly numbing them. I stand outside my apartment complex as I hold my cell phone to my ear with a trembling hand, listening to the mundane dial tone on the other end and waiting for someone to pick up.

Waiting for Jeromy to pick up.

But all I get is his voice mail.


For the love of zombie rabbits, Jeromy!

The generic, automated feminine voice comes on, and the familiarity of it only serves to piss me off.

“You have reached the voice message box of…Jeromy Turner.”

The sound of Jeromy’s recorded voice comes through as he says his own name, and I’m tired of hearing it.

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