A voice. The subtle nuances that define the one person in the world who knows you best. You wait to hear it from halfway around the world and it finally comes. Listening to it you can breathe again. A silly grin jumps across your face as you realize there is no delay in hearing him, his time is your time. It is as if he went to pick up a pizza or called on his way home from work.
There are a few differences: his Tuesday is your Monday. His day is your night. Bicycles buzz past him on a busy street. A family of four clings to a motorscooter and they somehow arrive at their destination in one piece. You hear the odd beeps of another place that exists beyond your imagination. Shouts and banging; birds singing at a new morning. He describes women washing their clothes in the river in front of him, up early with the dawn and facing a day that you know nothing about. Tonight you will put clothes in a washer and dryer. The hum will distract you while you watch a silly television show. There will be no manual labor. He is a window to another time, ancient in some ways yet modern in others.
There are more stories and laughter, but for now the voice is all you hear. A connection across thousands and thousands of miles, an ocean apart. He is yours. You are his.