Wrapped in a blanket, he sits on a couch, TV remote in hand, lights on dim, sound down.

He watches as the actors move their lips. Spencer Tracy talking to a young boy about fishing. No voices. Just silence. 

A pack of cigarettes lay on a table beside him. An old glass ashtray stolen from a hotel is overflowing.  Matches from a bar with a woman’s name and number inside the flap. The ink is fading, but he can still make it out. 

Sylvia written in cursive, black ink. 212-347-0874 with a pair of lips and a message saying, Call Me. He looks at this book of matches and laughs. Why do I hang on to these things? He asks. Why?

Placing his pointer finger in the tight circle, he dials the number. It rings several times. Hello, a feminine voice says. Hello. She repeats herself. Hello. There is no response. She hangs up.

Hours pass. Non-stick pans are being sold on television. A man making a beautiful omelet. The co-host is impressed as she bites into it. Comments on how it just slid out of the pan. He watches the two and sees the studio audience clapping. Lights another cigarette.

Again, he looks at the matchbook and the number. He can’t remember her. He decides to dial again.

Hello. I said hello.

Yes. Sorry to call so late, he says.

It’s two in the morning, her voice raised.

It’s the funniest thing. He chuckles. I just lit a cigarette and saw this number on the matchbook.

Ohhhh. OK.  So you decided to call at two in the morning?

Yes. Sorry.

There is quiet between them for a second or two. Are you lonely? She asks.

He waits to answer. Yes, he says. I am.

I see. Well. I’m married now.

Oh. I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have called.

It’s OK.  He’s out of town. He’s always out of town. And when he’s in town, he never pays attention to me. Isn’t that something.

Yes. Yes, it is Sylvia.

What’s your name?

Robert.

Where did we meet?

Not sure, he tells her. Could have been Rudy’s. I used to go there a lot when I was younger.

So did I. How old are you? She asks.

I’m Fifty-six.

Wow. I’m fifty. Time flies.

It does.

What did you use to look like? She laughs. I mean. Brown hair or blonde? Tall or short? Skinny or chunky? They laugh.

All of the above. They laugh harder.

Silly, she says. Well. I was blonde. Now I’m silver. Sometimes, I have it colored. But, not that often.

I see.

Yes. Are you married, Robert?

No. Never did. I live alone in the Bronx. I used to live in Manhattan, but my rent went up.

Everything is.

Yes.

I really should be going. Take care of yourself, Robert.

You too, Sylvia. Goodnight.

Goodnight.