[ WP ] There exists a phone line that will correctly answer any question asked to it . Write about either someone calling the line , or the person answering the question ...

He looks like the Marlboro Man and smokes like him, too. He holds a Red in his lips, a lighter in his hands. A dull flick and a spark and the smoke spills like whispers from the tip. He taps the ashes, takes another drag. The cherry red like heated steel. The phone dandles on his lap, its pig-tail cord looping down to his calf. He leers down at it, eyes expectant. He holds the receiver in his hand. 
 
 A jest, he tells himself. A jest was all it was. A little idle fun in the little idle hours of a little idle morning. He caught wind of this fabled line by accident earlier that night when, while purchasing the pack that he presently smokes, he heard the cashier converse with a greasy string bean of a boy -- something about answers, something about solace. And the conditions thereof? A mere phone call, and you would have your audience. 
 
 A fantastical lot, no doubt. But he was bored and nevertheless etched the number down and as the night wore on and he waxed restless still, he wagered it would n't hurt to indulge it a moment -- but not a moment more. 
 
 He reaches down and thumbs the number with five flakes of ash on the back of his hand and raises the receiver to his ear. Silence at first. Then that distant first ring. He had an answer at the third. 
 
 `` How can I help you?'' A soft voice. A voice like a priest in confession. He has no idea how to respond with this, so he responds as dully as he can. 
 
 `` What?'' 
 
 `` You have a question, yes? Go on. Ask it.'' 
 
 He mulls it over, masticates the thought of it far longer than he really should. A test question, he reasons. 
 
 `` Where am I?'' 
 
 `` At home, sitting on your bedside. The blinds behind you are half open and cherry swathes of light are cutting through. There's a desk at the other end of the room and a desk lamp with an emerald lampshade.'' 
 
 He looks over his shoulder, glances out the window. He cranes his neck and peers down the hall but finds no figure in the shadows. Goosebumps run like frost over his skin, but he sits back down and asks again. 
 
 `` What am I doing?'' 
 
 `` Talking to me. Smoking, too -- Marlboros, right? Bad habit. Should n't do that.'' 
 
 Silence just then. `` Right,'' he says as he scrubs out the cigarette. 
 
 `` Skeptical?'' 
 
 `` A little.'' 
 
 A chuckle from the other end. `` Is there something else you'd like to ask? Or would you like me to describe some more of your home furnishings?'' 
 
 He pauses, reaches for his smokes. He pulls back, though, fearing the man on the other end might reprimand him. He'll smoke later, he reasons. But questions. What questions? Too many to choose from. His health? He might be better off not asking. God? Same case as the former. With all the inquiries and all the wonders and all the musings in his life, how could he settle on one? What would be best to ask? He has no answer. But soon he settles on something. 
 
 `` Do dreams come true?'' 
 
 `` Sometimes. More than you'd think, but less than you'd hope.'' 
 
 `` Does she ever think of me?'' 
 
 `` Sometimes. Not very often, but sometimes.'' 
 
 He hesitates. `` Where did I go wrong?'' 
 
 `` Several places. Would you like a play-by-play?'' 
 
 `` No,'' he says with an exhale. `` No, that wo n't be necessary.'' 
 
 `` Anything else?'' 
 
 He wonders at this a while, not sure what to say. His natural inclination is yes, but every time he tries to summon up the words, they fall like feathers freshly shed. This gives him an idea 
 
 `` Sure,'' he says. `` Why ca n't I think of any questions? I want to ask them, but I ca n't get any good ones. I ca n't get them out. Why is that?'' 
 
 `` Because you do n't want answers,'' the voice replied. `` You want peace.'' 
 
 `` And how do I find that?'' 
 
 `` Once you stop worrying about the questions.''
