PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll
It took an hour to find a public phone. Everyone owned mobiles these days, no need for the distinctive red kiosks stinking of cigarettes and urine, the telephone directory with its well-thumbed pages.
Last time he’d rung was from an old call box like that. He’d been drinking, Dutch courage. A mistake.
Now his hand shook as he pushed the coins in the slot, waited for the ring tone. It had been so long, he’d done so much – most of it bad.
The call connected.
‘Hello?’ Her voice, still soft, smoky at the edges.
Sighing, he replaced the receiver.
Red telephone boxes were iconic and people were upset when they vanished from UK streets, but they were often misused, smelly, generally unpleasant places from which to make a call …