The Rubber Antenna

A street in Chicago on a clear October afternoon, standing upright on the sunlit boot lid of a dark red convertible car a tall narrow handheld telephone thirty-three centimetres high with its antenna, a light grey-white plastic case, a thick black rubber antenna rising from the top left, the gently curved cream front with a recessed earpiece of small holes, a narrow dark display window, a field of twelve beige keys and a row of smaller keys, one key red, every key blank and every surface plain and unmarked, a hand in a white shirt cuff reaching in from the right, a pale stone colonnade soft behind.