I love that you don’t speak. You call me once, maybe twice in a day. Payphones from Central London, nothing but background noise streaming through the ether to my handset, and I listen to you breathe from an international airport, from the beach, from my bed. Your anonymity thrills me. Your faceless face is a blank screen onto which I can project anything I choose. The lips against the mouthpiece, licked furtively in that void of silence, could be those of anyone I wish. With every phonecall, my mind conjures infinite possible combinations of gender, motive, and intent, each more delicious than the last. Don’t speak, dear stalker. Reality will only disappoint. No matter how perfect you may be, your voiceless voice says more with its eloquent silence than any dulcet tones could attempt to muster aloud. In your invisibility, you’re at your most beautiful. I prefer you as a figure of fantasy. I’m listening.