A late night on a not so busy city street; the faint whines of a cell phone is barely heard through the downpour of rain.
A body - not yet a corpse - struggles to drag itself to the nearby ringing, where only a moment ago their business associate stood. Alive. Complaining about wet socks and running noses. Good times.
A ringing phone is a torturous sound at the best of circumstances; this was that but as a three act play by Pinter. Torture over moments uncountable; insistent of its own significance and necessity, but ultimately just long and agonizing. And frustrating.
Each precious inch of ground gripped by the wounded figure, came at a cost.
Paid in effort. Paid in pain. Paid in blood leaking out of the numerous holes, freshly inflicted.
The only way in which this could get worse, is if the insistent caller on the other end, turned out to be a robo-dialer offering air miles.
An appropriate end to this cluster fuck of an evening.
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