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Eric Grant
Missing Parts
She emerged from the phone booth in a flurry of loose papers and on a breeze
of Giorgio’s Beverly Hills perfume. Her hair was disheveled, her open handbag
askew, and she was in obvious turmoil. But she glanced at me and smiled,
slowing her step and stopping before me. “Do you know what time it
is?’’ she asked. I shook my head, and as she left, she flung her hair
back and glanced back over her shoulder -- not at me, at the phone booth, yet
with body language that I understood. The fact that Beverly Hills is one of
the few perfumes I can recognize made me believe that the message was indeed
intended for me.
I looked back at the phone booth. There are no real phone
booths in Manhattan, not any of which I was aware in any case, yet here was
one, all in glass, shimmering in the early morning haze, and its presence did
not strike me as odd. I noticed that the receiver was off the hook, dangling
down to the ground, swaying gently. The woman may have disappeared but her
presence still lingered there, and I wondered what phone conversation she -- or
the person on the other end of the line -- had interrupted so brutally.
I entered and picked up the receiver.
“Ian, is that you?’’
It was my sister’s sleepy voice. She sounded so near,
though she lived in Los Angeles, and I looked around, for a moment perturbed
that she might actually be standing next to me. On the floor of the booth I
saw a wallet and a watch.
“Why are you calling?’’ she asked, so sure that
it would be me.
“I don’t know.’’
The watch was broken. I opened the wallet; inside was
only a business card.
“Are you okay?’’
“Yes, yes.’’ The name printed on the card was ‘Jackie O.,’ owner of a watch retail shop. I said, “Look, I’ve met the
woman I’m going to marry.’’
continued
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