Like this:

The old phone booth stands next to a boarded up grocery store, once a bustling flower shop. I pull off the road and park on the broken asphalt, away from the screaming trucks that kick up dust and belch hot, acrid air in their wakes. I sit for a while looking at this cowering box bolted to the asphalt pavement. It is leaning away from the road as if trying to escape the fumes. Swirling graffiti laces its outside, which gives it a cheap festive look. The bottom panels are dull with grease; one is cracked in a starburst pattern around a bullet hole. The panes above are covered with scars from graceless encounters with callers. My legs twitch in anticipation of the short walk to the booth, but I am not ready. I need another quiet minute of fingering the change in my pocket before I turn off the ignition and get out of the car.
The bi-fold door sticks and grumbles at points. Once inside, I give my arm a contorted flick and the door returns to an almost-closed position. Did it ever fully close for me? The aluminum floor creaks. Its once gleaming surface is now almost hidden beneath a matted mush of litter and dirt. When I see this, my toes curl within my brown Oxfords. Although it’s noon, the overhead light is on, struggling to escape the bug-filled plastic dome that lit the dial for me on those late nights when I called you. I take a deep breath and think I catch a hint of the cedar and citrus of my old aftershave. I want to believe the scent is still here but know it’s only my imagination. I stare at the stainless steel counter where I used to arrange my quarters in a circle, feeding one to the extorting slot every twenty seconds to avoid the dreaded interruption of an operator whining, “Please deposit another twenty-five cents for an additional thirty seconds of call time.” I picture the quarters clinking down into the change case, triggering some other sounds in the machine that added time to the call. I remember our game: I would call at our pre-arranged time. You would pick up after three rings and remain silent. I would say, “Hello?” You would wait for several heartbeats and say, “Hello to you, too. What a wonderful surprise.”
A blot from someone’s drink reminds me of the many cool Budweisers I perched on that shelf, getting warm, forgotten while I was lost in your voice. They tasted so refreshing after we hung up, a reward for my hoarse voice. I think of the matchbooks from every club in town that others had opened on this shelf since then. I wonder whether the numbers that were written on them were last resorts or first chances. I see oily orange splotches on the lip of the shelf where cigarettes had been balanced, lighted ends almost over the edge. A desperate riot of right and wrong numbers is now scratched into the shelf’s glossy surface—a permanent record of anticipation.
I settle against the back wall and see my reflection in the chromed face of the coin vault. My hair is gray now and my skin appears sallow and wrinkled in the green light. My memory is fading but I still remember the number I dialed on those nights.
I poise a coin in the slot and release it after a moment’s pause. I insert another and the ring tone triggers a memory of your laugh. I poke the numbers with my index finger and the electronic tune soothes me. The sound of the other phone ringing raises the hairs on the back of my neck, and my hand tightens on the receiver. After three rings, someone picks up but I can’t hear a breath or any other sound. After a moment I say, “Hello, it’s me. Are you there?”
A familiar voice, but much younger, answers, “Is this who I think it is? My mother said you would call someday.”