"Eight-hundred alcohol."  There was background-noise on the line, but no one spoke for a long moment.  Then a whispery female voice peeked-out, and waited;

"hi."  It is amazing how much can be conveyed by the pronounciation of a word; fragility, tearfulness, vulnerability.  Her single syllable sound would have elicited from me a gentle, "awwww, what'sa matter... hmm?"—if I were so inclined which I'm not. 

I waited for her to say something besides 'hi', but nothing came.  Then, in my best 'I-am-very-busy-and-what-could-you-possibly-want,-that-I-am-not-going-to-be-able-to-give-you-anyway' voice, I said, "Can I help you?"  That's really not too complex a sentiment to convey, what with all MY practice, and all of FOUR syllables for carriage. 

After a pregnant pause, she said, "I don't think so."  Oh! but it was the WAY she said it; beautifully perfect phrasing that left me almost feeling left-out when she retracted her misery—like a scowling angry child.  She could spew so much more than I, in the same number of syllables.  I envied her talent.  She must do a great 'Et tu, Brute'.

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