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cousin paulie from connecticut hasn't called me in a while. he must be in his eighties, judging from the gravel in his voice. he calls every few months and asks for marjorie or pamela or nancy, always insisting that he needs to speak to his niece, and every few months i remind him that i am not his niece and that he has the wrong number. the conversation typically follows the same path, as he rifles through  the loose scraps of paper on his desk, looking for his niece's number and asking how the weather is in new york. 

there are a few strangers in my address book, but cousin paulie is my favourite by far. he is the only one that isn't automated, as most of the others try to cajole me into buying things or going on a cruise, typically beginning with a foghorn followed by, "welcome aboard, this is your captain speaking!" cousin paulie is the only one who laughs, which he does every time i tell him he's not actually my cousin and every time he replies that it's not his fault, he's been senile for a while now.

over the summer there was a thunderstorm that i slept through with my window wide open, and my phone was soaked all the way through, jittering and flashing the next morning as if a splinter of lightning had worked its way inside. cousin paulie doesn't have my new number, and every few months i wonder whether or not he's finally reached marjorie or nancy, and how the weather is in connecticut.