Once she arrived, she ordered an iced latte then made her trek back toward her storage facility. Again, she approached the booth, drawing even more interest.
“Go on.”
Irish snapped her head to the left, noticing an older woman sitting on the ground. Her clothes were disheveled along with her tattered hair. On the side of her was a cup from the coffee shop with ice chips in it.
“You know you wanna go inside.” She beamed.
“Oh, no, I’m good. I was just wondering what it was,” Irish lied.
“It’s a booth to talk to people. I do it all the time. You talk, they listen and if you want, they can give advice. Go on and check it out.”
Irish glanced at the booth before looking back at the woman.
“Go ahead, honey. There’s nothing to be scared of. Just pick up the phone and start talking.”
Irish had no clue why her feet headed to the booth without her permission. The woman made it seem easy, and a part of Irish wanted to experience it for herself. With caution, Irish opened the door, surprised by the cool rush of air that escaped it. There was a seat and across from it was a telephone. Irish stepped inside, placed her drink on the bench, then picked up the phone.
“H-hello?” she stammered.
“Hello.”
The voice on the other end was pleasant. Like a seventy-degree day with no clouds in the sky. It was a woman’s tone that had a touch of maternal comfort. Irish cleared her throat, searching for what to say next.
“How are you?” the woman asked.
“Uh, I’m trying to figure that out now.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I’ve never done anything like this. You know, talk to a complete stranger inside a telephone booth.”
Irish held the phone tightly, looking around trying to make sense of what she was doing.
“It’s okay, dear. I know this may be a bit different for you but you're in charge. You only tell what you're comfortable telling me. I won’t pry any information out of you. I’m here to listen and offer feedback if that’s what you want.”
“So, you can’t see me?”
“No, I can’t. I don't even need to know your name. This booth was placed here in honor of Solana Tolbert. She was the woman who drowned in the ocean six years ago. Because of the nature of her death and her history with depression, the city wanted to ensure that the residents had an outlet. You know, someone to talk to.”
“I understand.”
“Are you comfortable?”
“Honestly, no.” Irish chuckled nervously. “I still can’t believe I’m sitting here.”
“In order for us to have a conversation, I do want you to be comfortable. I’m not here to hurt you or make you feel uneasy. We’re just here to have girl talk.”
Irish grinned. There was something about this woman’s voice that brought her great comfort. Maybe it was that part of Irish that craved the nurturing she had never received in her upbringing.
“Okay, okay.” She took a few deep breaths before promising, “I’m good now.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am.”
“Okay, good. Would you like to give me your name, or do you prefer to remain anonymous?”
“My name is Irish.”
