I had a two-minute phone conversation tonight. Actually, when I really sit down and think about it, I've probably had a two-minute phone conversation every day this week. Admittedly, it's hardly ample time to "reach out and touch someone" — in fact, it's not even adequate time for a healthy hello and goodbye. I could justify it if my phone were broken or my bill was too high, but sadly, the reason my conversations are so short is me.

A two-minute phone conversation is not a mortal sin; in fact, most of us have one every day. We use them to call up to friends' dorm rooms to let them know we're waiting outside, we use them to set up times to meet in the dining hall. We use them to make appointments; we use them to confirm plans for Heartland and Senior Bar.

But when that two-minute phone conversation consists of your entire relationship, it can start to feel like a mortal sin.

Last October, the military sent my boyfriend packing to Richmond, VA — a grand total of 708.3 miles from South Bend (driving time approximately 12 hours barring any traffic delays.) The typical US Airways flight can get me there in about five hours, at the average cost of $255.50, granted I book at least 14 days in advance. With the crippling disabilities of few free weekends and a distressed bank account, the telephone ends up making up the bulk of our communication — and our relationship.

Essentially, our relationship has ended up completely dependent on a third party — it's not just Noreen and Mark, it's Noreen, Mark and the telephone. While I'm gratefully endebted to this third party that keeps our relationship going, I'm beginning to resent its constraints. With two different schedules — his lasting during the peak day hours and mine pumping through the night — neither of us end up near the telephone often enough to make a connection.

It usually goes something like this: I glance at the clock and realize that once my shift is over, he's just getting up. `I could call,' I think to myself, and pick up the phone as he's running out the door. As we say goodbye, there's this awkward moment where we don't know whether to say `good morning' or `good night' — after all, it's different for each of us.

Hence the two minute conversation.

As much as I resent it, I am grateful for the two-minute conversation. I could write letters or pour my soul out over email, but the phone lets me hear his voice. And when you're 708.3 miles, $255.50 and 12 hours apart, every minute counts.

They say when you get into a long-distance relationship, it's not going to be easy. They say to avoid it at all costs, that it's going to fail. I imagine the reason they warn you is because of the two-minute conversation: the frustration, the guilt and the sadness you feel when you get off the phone.

But I'll take my two minutes any day of the week over nothing. I'd take two seconds. And I know when I have time during the day on Saturday, when neither of us are working, I'll pick up the phone and call.

And I'll talk for two hours.

• Hanging Up