I expect

You to call when I tell you to. Because everything else listens to me. The lights turn green, the bananas ripen. Even the more improbable: ice cream will halt its melting, stay half-solid indefinitely. Dripping faucets fall silent just for the asking. I have come to expect this acquiescence. What makes you think you're exempt?

To see if it still worked, I deafened the sound on the television, and the newscasters reported technical difficulties. I made it snow, even in August, just a few flakes, just to prove a point. Everything worked normally, but the phone didn't ring. Fine. Fine. You might not know this, but I could cause a flood. I could get melodramatic and there'd be a literal swarm of locusts in your living room. I will not have to resort to any of these theatrics if you'd just call.

I'm waiting. Any minute, the tide will rise, even if it kills me. The television screen is snowy with static. I have never met a man as stubborn as you. I can only wonder why you might be doing this, if you're trying to pick a fight, if this is what you want.

And then you're speaking, directly into my ear. "I can't talk to you when you're being like this," you say. "Enough already. I can hear you."