By Lisa Roylance
In some ways the next moment and the ones spreading over the following year still evade you, bleed into each other like paint colors on a cheap canvas. Maybe it’s because you wore those memories out from replay.
You picked up the phone and Jon, one of the local branch managers you’d met a few times, was on the other line. He asked for your boss’s boss, the president of the company, who wasn’t there. You’re not exactly sure how the conversation turned casual, but it did. At the time, you despised talking on the phone, the silence, the breathing, faceless voices reaching across miles and acres just to cut each other off. But this, this was different, and words fell off your tongue and landed at the bottom of the receiver like they were made for those holes. You talked about finally finishing your undergraduate degree, and traveling Europe the summer before. Then he said, oh I’ve traveled too, and it was his turn—words falling into those holes and beading their way to you like strands of tinsel. He took you around the world until you could taste the Egyptian sand in your teeth.
About the Author
Lisa Roylance is an MFA candidate studying creative nonfiction and fiction at Brigham Young University. both her fiction and nonfiction have won university and state awards. She teaches writing composition at BYU and when she’s not fretting about her students, can be found with her guitar, a classical she learned chords on six years ago, and her dog bay.
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