At 7:26 am, I stumble out of bed. It’s Sunday - I’m allowed to stumble all day if I please. I glance around me, confused, looking for an element of comfort, for a presence that isn’t there. What is there, and that’s a sight which adds to my confusion, is two phones. Not one, two. Sitting next to the alarm clock. One is small and shinny and speaks of old times, of past crisis and a newly developed unreliability. The other is bigger, has a mini keyboard, a color LCD screen and it screams of the present, of change in the air, of new responsibilities and a game I’m not sure I want to play. They guarded my night. They haunt my days. But they are also a link to what’s missing. And very dear for this reason.
My brain is moving slowly. As always that’s when things happen. Suddenly something buzzes in the general vicinity of the clock. Must be a phone. Must be a text message on one of the phones. From Marie. I head towards the bed and hit the ironing board with my knee. The buzz turns into a ring. That’s even more confusing. Is it my alarm clock ringing instead? It was set for 7:30. I stretch on the bed towards the area of concern and as I’m reaching for the clock’s snooze button, the radio starts playing. That’s the alarm. It’s 7:30. So a phone is ringing. I must decide which one quickly. I pick up the Blackberry and fumble for the wheel. There’s nothing on the screen. I drop it and catch the Motorola which has just gone silent. Its blue display says « 1 missed call ». No shit. I hate phones. 
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