Epilogue

Sitting on the bed transcribing the last vestiges of a dearly departed simcard's soul to the pristinely blank slate of a newborn, or rather newbought chip, His fingers recoil slightly at the once-familiar sight of a series of numbers now foreign to Himself.

He remembers :

Shivering in the chilly, unheated corridor outside his room (or rather, personally customised refrigeration unit) at the cheap Residence phone, which strangely resembled an armoured personnel carrier, dialing in the frustratingly long sequence of numbers of his calling card, so that he could complete it with Hers . The frustration of any number of misdialed attempts was worth the final reward of her always faintly-surprised, but warm "hello?", and the inevitable laughter that invariably accompanied the (level four!) communication after.

Waiting for that inconsiderate American Visitor from Upstairs to get off His (public) payphone, and inadvertently overhearing through his closed door the details of the latest guy she'd slept with, but she still loved him on the Other side of the Atlantic loads and loads, and it was okay with her that he was sleeping with someone else, as long as they loved each other. He even remembers their Final Call, and feeling just a little bit sad that the Great American Dream had ceased to be - predictable as it had been right from the start.

Sitting at his desk tentatively pressing, with some small misgiving the "magic numbers" into that hideously expensive ACC 'phone keypad on days when the chill outside would have simply been too much to bear.

Her laughing about having to hide her 'phone bill from her dad, and thinking, well it's a good thing my parents never visit... And feeling grateful that She had a 'phone bill to hide - and that He did, at least in principle, as well.

Standing under a dying sunset by Coogie Bay at a sleek, shiny-grey public telephone, talking to Her, and arranging to meet up. The queue of uncharacteristically un-laid back ozzies building up alarmingly as he spoke on his unlimited 40 cents credit. He remembers wishing he could call everytime he walked past a telephone. But holding himself in check - She had Exams to clear. Better this way.

Nebulously, (and nervously) telephoning her at her student union - why, and how that was so he doesn't remember. He thinks he was at his cheap backpackers at the time. That bit's gone a bit fuzzy around the edges.

Meeting. Laughing. Sadness. Anger. Joy. Silence. All in the span of an evening - and then being alone again. And looking at that shiny grey telephone for a while, wondering. Hoping. Not daring. (And, somewhere in the future, discovering that She'd been trying to call through then, almost desperately, with no success. Thank You Wizard of Oz Backpackers.)

The days when they kidded around that now their Companies had merged, the world was theirs for the taking. Post traumatic event. Another telephone, another day.

Seattle Coffee Co, and her ribbing him about being fooled by the fake Irish Cream. They laughed to each other with their eyes as he mock-petulantly sniffed that it tasted good, anyhow.

He lays the phone back down to rest. It is Done.