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| Sooner or Later, cont'd |
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| walked around to the other side of the phone, and gave the wall on that side a couple of new scuff marks. He uncrossed his arms. He was about to meander back to his original position, when the line finally picked up again. "Pronto! Che numero?" "Parliamo l'inglese?" "Si, I speak a leetle...the nombero you looking?" "The last name is Summers, Buffy Summers or maybe just B. Summers." He was just a step below yelling into the phone, in the vain hope that an increase in volume would make the language more comprehensible to the Italian operator. "You spella the name?" "S - U - M - M - E - R - S, Buffy" "S - U - N - N -" "No, you nit, M - M ... M like in money, lira...!" "S - U - M - L -" "No, NO! No L...two M's." "S - U - M - M - E - R - S?" "Yes!" the relief that poured through Spike at this minor triumph was rudely interrupted by the electronic announcement that he had "one minute remaining on your MCT Call Pass." "SHITE!!" "Signore?! Che? Eh, what is...you are still here, eh?" Intending to holler at the electronic voice, he was, in fact, berating the very confused woman in Rome. "Sorry...Scusi! My calling card's about to run out of credit. Can we hurry this up a bit?" "Eh, si, si...Is Summers, Bunny?" "No, not Bunny...Buffy! BUFFY!! B - U - F - F - Y." Name is with two S, like the Summers?" Spike was becoming convinced that Psycho Slayer's work on him had been less painful than this project had become. "NO, IT'S A SODDIN' F -- LIKE FLORENCE, eh Firenze!!" "Si...un momento. I see no name like how you say. There is S - O - M - M - E - R - S, with just a B...this is maybe person you --" "Yes, yes, just give me the number!!" But he was talking to himself. The line had clicked dead. Spike roared in frustration as he beat the receiver of the pay phone against the side of the box, prompting a young mother pushing a stroller to cross to the other side of the street. He still didn't know what he'd planned to say to her, but he was hoping that perhaps hearing her voice would help him figure it out. Or, if not...hoping to just hear her voice. He might as well have saved himself the trouble. Evidently, today was not the day either. ~ / ~ "So y'see, Mate...'s like Fate 'herself's again' me...prolly shouldn't ev'n find the bird, she's got 'er a life, don't need me bollocksing 't up fer 'er...'er 'n' the lil'bit...'s all I ev'r do, 's bollocksup ev'r'thing' I try...." The bartended had clearly long since quit caring about Spike's tale of woe, and understood very little of it, save that there was a girl, and she was overseas, and he couldn't seem to contact her. For some reason. And that he seemed ambivalent about whether he should, except that being unable seemed to make him want to. Or something. "Look buddy, you've had enough. I'm going to have to cut you off. Want me to call you a cab?" "Wassat? Cab? Nahhh, don' need a cab. Jus' fin' me a nice cozy alley t'fall down in...think how t' tell'er t'morrow." And he lurched to his feet, and staggered out the door, muttering how "t'morrow I'll figger 't out. Not t'day...." The bartender watched him go, absently wiping down the countertop, not entirely unmoved by the obvious pain he'd spent the last several hours witnessing. Maybe the girl'd left him because he drank too much or ran around, or was some other sort of jerk. Then again, he'd heard enough sob stories to think this one might fall in the other category -- of people who really cared about each other, but their timing was always wrong, or their families made trouble for them, or that in spite of their best efforts, they just couldn't seem to make it work. He'd run into those every once in a while. Those were the sad ones. He sighed and began to rack clean glasses. He paused though, glancing at the clock. After a brief internal debate, he decided it wasn't too late for this phone call. He pulled out his cell, turned his back to the few patrons seated at tables, and hit a speed dial button. A sleepy voice answered on the fourth ring. |
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