After the second ring someone picks up, breathless.

"Hello?" It's a woman. My tongue twists.

"Hello?" Her voice is small, barely audible. Like wind through leaves.

"Hello?" It's louder now. She seems busy. I get scared.

"Hello, who is this?" The octave goes from a whisper to a higher pitch in an instant. Uh oh. This is not how I wanted to begin. Precisely when I open my mouth to speak, she interjects.

"Peter?" she asks, practically pleads.

My heart pounded, blood pumped, foot twitched. I couldn't move my lips and my tongue laid still. Useless as a sodden sock, I was mute.

"Peter, please say something." She seems to have taken my silence for affirmation that I am this Peter guy. Fuck.

I should have been brash when I had the chance. I should have corrected her instantly. Sorry, wrong number, I could have said. I could have hung up, laid the phone to rest in its cradle, walked away.

But I didn't. I froze. Her voice was so soft.

"Peter, if you would just say something..."

If I hung up now, without an explanation, she'd think Peter hung up on her. Why does it even matter, I wondered. They're both strangers to me.

It was her voice, I think. It was familiar. I couldn't disconnect. We shared a melancholy. I knew her.

So I grunted. Well, almost growled. I cleared my throat into the phone and hoped it didn't sound too feminine. I had no idea what to do next.

"Peter!" she exclaimed, all doubt absolved. She then exhaled in the same way bed sheets rustle when slipping beneath them.

"I'm so glad you called," she says. I imagine linen on my skin. I imagine tucking her in.

"Mmmmmm," I mumble, mouth half closed. And it is enough to keep her talking.