Talking on the phone

The conversation wouldn't start with "Hi babes, listen I just wanted to ask…"
They would start with " Hiiiiiiiii. Howww youu doooweeein?? How was your day?"
Talking. For endless hours, just talking. And it wasn't like those perhaps 20 to 30-minute conversations you have with a friend where you heatedly talk about something you've been wanting to talk about for a long time – gossiping about a professor who has it in for you, wondering what happened to that girl you hadn't seen for ages, laughing at some friend, or just reminiscing about the good ol' days. It was actual conversations about heartfelt issues, and it was every. single. night. and it lasted all night long till the thin rays of sunlight pierced the blue sky and we were too cold to get out of bed and pull the curtains (and too lazy).
Sometimes hours would pass and we would be silent. The stillness was pleasant, and it sometimes became so hushed that the quiet and calmness in that late night seemed sacred, we were forbidden to break it, it was intense and mysterious, and all the figures in the room that seemed small and meaningless during the day appeared to be that much bigger, and pretty much came to life. These larger and shadowy figures made us swear that we would stay silent, for as long as it took. After a while one of us would need to go to the bathroom, or get water, and the silence would be unintentionally broken, and we would instinctively leave the door ajar so some light could sneak in and we wouldn't have to make that promise again.
Sometimes we would run out of thoughts and our silences weren't still, they were quick and searching, until one of us remembered something they wanted to say.
And I can picture in my mind what we looked like, as if I am looking at picture-in-picture and I can see the both of us, each lying on their bed, staring at the ceiling. Sometimes I would turn over and let the receiver rest on my cheek, and I could hear breathing. I couldn't tell if it was his or mine, but it was a restful sound all the same. All was right in the world. Everything that happened was fair.
I remember sitting on the floor, my back resting against the cold wall, twirling my fingers around the cord. I remember noticing that when he whispered, so did I, I remember our silly phrases that we repeated over and over again, I remember the both of us humming the pink panther tune, I remember him cracking up whenever I knew what he was talking about before he finished what he was saying, I remembering laughing gently at his jokes. Most of the time they were sarcastic remarks, but never hurtful, and almost always about things that I already thought were ironic. I remember talking, all night long, but I can't remember about what exactly, and why it took so long. It wasn't nonsense. It was interesting. We shared thoughts, talked about memories, poked fun at our friends. We dreamed about the future, what 'we' would do when we got older, what jobs we would get, where we would travel, and what kind of people we would end up being. It was all so optimistic, all so bright –how confident we were that all we planned would come true.
The best part was we talked every night in the same exact way. It was always the last thing we did, and we did it all night long. It wasn't playful, not a one-night stand. We always ended our conversation with a mutual promise that the next night would be the same. Sometimes we ate while we talked, sometimes watched the same movie, once we actually fell asleep and woke up in the morning with the cords choking our necks.
It's a memory that haunts me, because when it was over, the nights seemed long and pointless. I remember looking forward to the night, I remember consciously stacking details of my day in my memory so I could bring it up in the conversation – every joke, every funny moment, every hurt sentiment, every serious thought: up on the shelf only to be pulled down at night and talked over. Talking was therapy. We sorted out our thoughts when we talked, organized our feelings, made sense of what happened and why. Even the things we couldn't explain, just talking about them would make us realize that some things are supposed to be unexplained, like why the TV stopped working right at the moment when the best part of the movie I was waiting 2 months to watch came on. Or why my cat died and it wasn't old and for no apparent reason. Or why … you know, it doesn't even matter. It doesn't matter who it was that I talked to, or what we talked about, or why the conversations ended. (Actually it all matters and I'm just bitter)
The point is: those conversations … they were the best part of my day. When I woke up in the morning I would lie in bed trying to focus, trying to think of a reason to get out of bed, and there it was: so I could have something to tell him at night. He was the historian who took down my life so when all was said and done, I would be remembered. And isn't that what we all want? To have someone acknowledge our lives? To say, "yeah, that was just like her"? Or "yeah, I remember when he did that, and it was really funny"?
I don’t know how I finally got here. I don't know when the "After 5 years, I will do this…" became "Oh shit, I didn't get this done, well, I'll leave it for tomorrow." But it happened. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad I'm here, I'm glad I've stopped planning for 5 years to come and started living day by day, but if you asked me what I missed most about growing up, it would be…talking on the phone, because in all these years, it never happened again, and even the conversations (since then) that have lasted all night long had not the same taste. I doubt that there will ever be a conversation like those in my life again.