The phone rings, Or rather vibrates, As I stir my instant coffee Because my Keurig is broken And I haven’t gotten around to replacing it. The lady on the other end Of the call Says she’s with the bank. She’s selling identity theft protection subscriptions. I listen to her Explain What that is With mild excitement growing in my stomach; Not with regards to the Subscription, But over the Tones and intonations — The way she breathes: Softly, Warmly, Unconsciously. I let her run with it, Feigning curiosity at first. A question here, There, To really get her going. I wonder when she was last ******? She asks to verify my name, Address. She mentions a credit score package (Ooh la la) That will provide me with insight as to whether my identity has ever been Stolen. (This call Is getting steamy) She tells me that in order to receive the package I need to confirm my enrolment in the subscription. ‘What? Could you repeat that?’ I can feel it Tickling, Licking, My soul, As I sip my ****** instant coffee. I tell her That I absolutely won’t enrol, That I refuse, But that she should be a voice actor Or that if she was a voice option for Siri I would surely select her. She doesn’t have a response, Choosing to wish me a good evening instead, And to thank me on behalf of her employer. ‘No, Thank you dear. Call this number whenever you like. I don’t want your talents to go unappreciated by other customers Who I’m sure are all swines.’ Click. I stare at the ended call And fantasize about your voice, And when you were last ******. Too bad the coffee is ****.