There's a moment

There's a moment in which you look over to your phone.

Why not?

A simple call. A hello upon pickup, perhaps a message left at the beep.

Hey you, it's me. I was just thinking of you and thought I'd call to say hello. So hi. Give me a call sometime. I miss you.

But what is it really that's missed?

You're actually thinking of what might have been missed. What maybe, given a different location or turn of events, could have given you reason to miss.

You can't miss him - you've only have had a periphery glimpse of who he is.

But you like to think that might have mattered. If only. Maybe. Perhaps.

You look over to the phone, your head filled with idealized notions of the conversation that might unfold. The hope that saying "I miss you" will be lead to a "Hey, I miss you too. I'm glad you called."

There's a moment. But you remember the other times that moment has come, when you seized it and were left with arched eyebrows or a frustrated click of the phone.

You don't miss him. You truly don't. You miss the idea of feeling as if you might wind up with reason to miss.

You wait for the moment to pass. You keep your hands far away from the phone.