Stopping beside the coffee-maker with a cup of coffee in her hand, still not talking, not even to herself, but thinking thinking thinking. Of what? Of things to say, of course! Listen, Let me tell you something, Look—all her imaginary conversations start with these phrases or some variation of, and nothing follows, the intake of breath as if something will, but then, nothing. What is there to say that hasn’t already been said, re-said, clarified, re-clarifed, corrected, amended,  misunderstood, and in retrospect regretted, the genesis of some inextricably complicated and never to be reversed taking-umbrage-at, at best, forgotten, one can only hope? She reserves her eloquence for a sigh. Her apologies for wrong numbers. Those poor lost souls who think they know who they are calling but who’ve gotten her instead. Hello? Hello? Is this...who is this? Sorry. Wrong number. They never, not once that she can ever recall, hang on long enough to say goodbye.