Same Words I Used At Sixteen

The station's dedication line only gets maybe six calls a week this shift, mostly the same three regulars asking for the same songs. I log them, queue them, read the messages in my flattest voice at four so nobody thinks I care which ones I skip.

Tonight's message is a girl asking me to play a song for a boy named Eric, and she can't get the words out right. She starts twice, laughs at herself, says never mind, actually yes, please, then says thank you so fast it runs into goodbye. It's exactly how I used to ask. Same stumble on 'actually yes.' I know because I used that line, that song, at sixteen, on a boy also named something with an E, back when this town still had my parents' number listed.

I call the number back between songs. Disconnected, the automated voice says, please check the number and try again. It's the area code of the house I grew up in, four streets from here, sold years ago to people who repainted the mailbox.

I've got the message queued to play at four ten. I keep opening the folder and closing it instead of hitting send, like there's a version of me still on the other end of that line who'd know if I actually played it, or just filed it away next to the deleted account and the yearbook I never picked up.