By Leslie Lindsay Here’s something I have been working on this week.  It’s from my novel-in-progress.  Remember this is fiction and not intended to represent anyone real, living or dead.  Like my work?  Great.  But please don’t take it without asking.  Don’t like it?  Well…what can I say?!          The day drug on.  Silence gripped my soul.   The tick of the wall clock pounded behind my eyes, a network of vessels and synapses reaching for an impasse.  Everyday numbers rambled through my head.  29-39, 25-30.  Counting by tens, by 5’s.          Counting on you.         Desperate for a human connection, my fingers itching to dial, “just tap the numbers into the phone,” I scolded myself, shaking my head.  An electronic device, the abstraction of numbers rattling in my thoughts.  How can a phone be a connection to the living, breathing world?  Something so inanimate, yet so alive with possiblility, the promise of a relationship.           A time so emotionally charged, the arrangement of the digits so frightenly familiar, though they have not been dialed in …