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Patrick Sun, of the Phoenix Suns, not the basketball team but the family of Suns that lived in Phoenix, as he liked to joke (fairly unsuccessfully usually, as was involved in Information Technology, and had moved from Phoenix to Seattle to pursue said career, and IT specialists are not well versed in NBA teams, especially NBA teams from cities fairly far away), was on the phone with Patricia Croft, of the Seattle Crofts, which was not nearly as amusing to Patrick. More specifically, he was on the phone with Patricia Croft’s answering machine.

“Okay, listen, Patricia, I still don’t understand your reasons, but I respect them, whatever they might be, I wish you tell me, but I sure as hell respect you, it’s just that I really think we should talk when I get back. I mean, you deserve your way of thinking on this whole thing, but I need to know for myself why - crap, the phone is beeping at me again. What the hell, this phone card thing is supposed to be good for - well that doesn’t matter, I just need to let you know that I still lo-”

With that, the phone stopped beeping, and went to a funny buzz that apparently was France’s equivalent of a dial tone. Patrick stared at the phone, then at the phone card in his hand, the one that he had been sure would last him and Patricia across all of France. Well, maybe he hadn’t figured in payphone fees when he bought it.

Patrick hung the phone back onto its cradle slowly, then checked his plane ticket and his watch. Boarding was at 1050, which meant 10:50 AM, which meant he still had an hour to kill- and the security lines were short here, so he didn’t need to hurry yet. Wait, hold on a second. 9:50 here meant… okay, it was a difference of how many hours? Crap, he had called Patricia at ten of one in the morning. Well, she hadn’t answered… but maybe he better try his emergency backup calling card and leave an apology for almost waking her up.

Patrick had been apologizing to Patricia for quite a long time, and had gotten good enough at it for Patricia to plan to marry him, at least until a week ago. When only the Sun side of the wedding showed up. He was a bit mad about that. The people that had to drive to a different state could make it, but the people who lived across town apparently gave up in traffic and never showed! Patrick took a deep breath, and slowly let it out. Angry apologizing never worked properly for him.

The next minute was consumed with slowly dialing the extremely intricate codes and numbers on the back of the emergency backup calling card, then dialing Patricia’s cell phone number, of course remembering to dial America’s country code first. People dragging wobbling suitcases brushed by his shoulder as he rehearsed the first words of his apology. The phone rang four times, and just as he expected Patricia’s voicemail to pick up, Patricia picked up.

Tinny from across an ocean and a continent, Patricia shouted, “What the hell do you want?”, and giggled. In the background snatches of loud, bad songs from the eighties were playing.

Patrick opened his mouth, and closed it. He opened it again, and it hung there as Patricia shouted, away from her phone mouthpiece, apparently, but still audible, “It’s just my old boyfriend.” She paused, and laughed loudly, and the next comment was into the mouthpiece, and still shouted over the guitar riffs, “Whatshisface here, Brian, Brad? He says he bets his thing is twice as long as yours. I think I’ll let him show me.” And the phone went dead, and then back to buzzing gently in Patrick’s ear.