He picks up his cell phone. After two rings, her voicemail kicks in. “This is Leila. You know what to do.” Beep. He clicks off, dials again, listens to the same eight words again, over and over. He closes his eyes, listening to her voice as intensely as he does music. He holds onto her voice in the dark of the night, imagining that he’ll see her again tomorrow, see her beautiful face, hear her sultry voice. Once more and then he’ll sleep. But the number’s been disconnected. After all, she’s been dead for a month.