Beth eventually asks for his phone number. The bill will be astronomical but she doesn't give a damn. After all, for her the only material obsession truly worth spending money on is clothes but her other, higher ones - chess and Borgov - are more important. And so they start talking. Not every day, of course, though she's sure - almost sure, pretty sure - her phone is not bugged and his simply can't be. Talking in the evening becomes her new ritual, just like their walk when he was still with her in Kentucky, and, in a way, her substitute for pills. Hearing him through the receiver, his voice creaky and synthetic, isn't the same but it'll do for now. It'll have to, for now. She desperately doesn't want to let go of the idea of seeing him again.