Transactional

Hello, excuse me...

The crackling voice on the phone held the same

Bitter, affluent tone that always preceded the

Transaction.

A tip of the hand already.

.

Are you well?

No, never.

Nothing even close to well, to all right, to acceptable.

I am the withering plant you swore to water

Two months back, choking on dry dirt and sunlight.

.

I hope you are.

It has the same rubbery feel as his lies.

Tastes the same, chalky and untrue, in my mouth

As I repeat it back to an empty house.

A stadium with no audience.

.

Listen...

It isn't a plea, not really, but a command.

The words wrap themselves around my throat

And demand that I hear past the letters

To the threat of violence looming large.

.

I need...

Money? Booze? Never something so simple.

What he wants is never something easy to obtain.

It's the old transaction of the heart.

He rambles out abusive words, I listen, and the world grows still.

.

I love you.

A rubber band snapping back to its form.

The lie is as ugly as the rest and as familiar too.

I mimic the response, spit out a few sympathetic apologies,

And the transaction is complete.

.

The call ends. The email signs off. The text remains unanswered.

I have fulfilled my end of the bargain.

He has given me a basket full of pain and I have fed him

His transactional sympathy.