I’m trying to snooze because I’ve opened my eyes at 7am despite having fallen asleep at 3am, and it’s unfair with my mind that my body is so used to waking up early no matter what. It’s Sunday, after all, so I should try to get some more rest. I toss and turn with the music on, so whenever there’s a song that doesn’t mingle well with my dreams, I have to move my arm and press a button to change it, resetting the whole cycle. Suddenly, the phone rings.
“Good morning, girl!” says a cheerful voice at the other side of the line. I recognize that voice all too well, and I laugh. I always laugh when I hear him. It’s not that there’s anything funny about him, but it’s rather related to the joy he brings.
He’s speaking in English. He’s talking really fast and I don’t understand everything he’s saying, partly because I’m partly deaf, and partly because I’m partly sleepy. He tells me all about his recent nightly outing and this club full of teenagers and twelve francs for the entrance and altogether eighteen francs or something and I’ve no idea how much in yen is one Swiss franc so I mistakenly assume from his tone that it must be expensive. I’m listening intently, stupidly wondering why we’re having this conversation in English, as if I had forgotten our custom of alternating languages indistinctly. It could’ve very well been French: then I would’ve been in real trouble. I’m doing my best to recover that language from the shipwreck of oblivion in order to broaden our verbal spectrum.
He’s still talking and I’m not saying much. I’m a zombie with Asperger’s: I love that he’s calling but can’t understand why he’s doing so. All the love in my heart is not enough to make up for my chronic social autism, so I interpret this sudden bout of upbeat verbosity as—
“Are you drunk?”