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The phone rings in the background. An indiscrete noise inside a bland decor of red and white. Indistinguishable from all other rings except for the strength of it. I know it rings from the table beside mine.
I don’t pick up.
The gentleman at the “table beside mine” is on holiday. The phone rings for me.
I don’t pick up.
The printer comes alive, page after page rushes out. I wonder, “How much wood does this floor go through every day? How many trees?”
The phone keeps on ringing.
I don’t pick up.
People rush through the isle. Some with purpose, some with haste, others just for the sake of rushing. I see a familiar face. The face notices, acknowledges recognition with a perfunctory wave, rushes by. I never wave back.
The phone stops ringing.
My cell phone comes alive.
I don’t pick up.
I close my eyes.
I pick up my bag, throw away my tie, push someone out of my way, run to the door and never stop. Cars honk, pedestrians shout, children cry, beggers beg, dogs bark and I run. Streets give way to brick roads, brick roads to mud lanes, mud lanes to grasses, and finally, grasses to trees.
I stop running.
Green, quite, soft, mellow and kind, the forest seems unaware of my presence. I breathe the clean air, savour the silence and sit down on the ground again.
In the distance, a phone starts ringing again.
I open my eyes.
I don’t pick up.
