He calls.

Sitting at my desk, working into overtime, coworkers slowly exiting the building, monitors turning black one by one, my phone rings.

I hear the soft growl in his voice, the undercurrent hum that indicates distress, exhaustion, or inebriation.

Sometimes that "or" is an "and".

Usually that "sometimes" is an "often".

So I close up early, making last minute adjustments before clicking files closed. Tap folders into uniformity on the surface of my desk, pens into straight lines, calculator gone home to roost in the right-hand drawer.

There's no longer the initial hardness in him, where I have to twist at impossible angles when I attempt to dive beneath his layers of defense. Each time we spoke, it took less and less time.

I told him he was like a feral cat, with me taking one step closer every day, making sure he was growing used to my presence, making sure he wouldn't bolt or scratch.

When he calls, his voice tinged with gravel tells me things I need to know. He calls, and simply dialing those numbers removes most of his bristles. Acrobatics on my part are no longer needed.

I open my car door, the phone wedged between my ear and my shoulder. Purse is tossed on the passenger seat, followed by a book and now-empty tupperware, vacated home of last night's leftovers.

On the freeway, his silence is enough to push me to ask him if he would like me to leave him be for the evening, or if there was something he wanted me to do.

"Talk," he says, "Just talk to me."

So I do.

Inane babblings, stories of no value, things that only my mother would be interested in fall out of my mouth. My weekend plans. Recent purchases. Delving into psychology of friends. Cat stories.

Yes, cat stories.

It isn't about the content.

Nearing ten o'clock, he called for connection, called for distraction, called for a voice with an easy monotone to help him achieve sleep. It wasn't about what I said.

And in the morning, he won't remember it.

In the morning, he'll look at his call log, see who he might have drunk-dialed, and groan and wonder what things I drew out of him that he never meant to tell me. Kick himself for being human, for having vulnerable moments, for allowing alcohol to weaken.

It's odd. Tipping a few (or several) back something associated with masculine behavior. Men drink. Men get drunk. It's "manly". It allows easy access to emotions, whether it's rage or depression, that some refuse to tap on during sobriety. It allows expression of feelings, albeit sloppily, that men normally would prevent themselves from putting forth. It's an excuse for violence, but it's also an excuse for tears.

In the morning, you can shrug it off. Blame it on the booze. Those emotions normally aren't there- the alcohol made me feel that way. You're still a man. And your friends understand.

I exited the freeway, checked for police outside of the station, and began describing the neighborhood. Just words. Picturing him sprawled out across a bed or leaning back in a chair, phone held to his ear by gravity, eyes closed, brain not registering the meanings of the sounds I was making, only that I was making them.

Parked behind my apartment, checked the mail, glanced at the bar across the street, still talking.

A pause, and he's waking up. I ask if he'd like me to continue talking, or if he's at the point where sleep is possible.

He tells me he's drifting off, and I tell him to go to bed.

Shifting the items in my arms, I dig my keys out of my pocket in front of my apartment door.

I barely hear him, his voice is so low, when he tells me he's sorry. He's sorry how things happened, sorry how complicated everything was, how complicated everything became.

I wish him a good night, and he's gone.

Just words. It's only the memory of them, how they made you feel, that gives them permanent value.