An indifferent voice, cold, mechanical, announces one message saved, archived; a little secret of mine stored for those times I need the sound of you in my ear. It's rarely accessed, to be sure; some distant touch of fear preventing me from listening too often, like I'd be caught in the midst of some deception. But in those moments of weakness, a few sure keystrokes brings those breathy vocals back, and for a brief time as I listen I am there, unearthing all the things locked away I have in response. Remembering things that may be, may have never been, sometimes so hard to tell: your lips opening to warmth in the chilled night of Midtown Square, arms wrapping around each other against the hum of evening traffic. And you step back, recede into distance, despite my plea, as the recording ends with a harsh reminder of how artificial I feel. To delete this message, and I miss you now, press one. To save this message, press one.

One.