It had been two weeks, two days and three hours since she had last heard his voice and his words still reverberated against her eardrums, spun through her head and shook her inside her core.
She spent the day alone like the preceding sixteen, surfing the net and flipping through channels. Christmas was everywhere and Elvis’ one song that mattered was playing on loop, but it was not making her feel any better at all. But neither had the Oreos, the crisps or the cigarettes.
The phone rang.
Her heart paused.
She jumped to her feet and listened. The sound was muffled. She ran to her bag, still lying in the middle of the hallway. It’s not him. It could not be him, she knew that yet her hands were trembling and the anticipation was physical; pressing against her throat, making her choke. The phone was still ringing and the purse was packed. Did he change his mind? Her shaking fingers felt frantically through the accumulated crap in her bag. It’s not him. Notebooks, money, tissues, make-up bag blocked the way. It’s not him. The tips of her fingers honed in around the cold plastic of the phone which was no longer ringing. A beep. Incoming message. It’s not him. She flipped the phone open, urgently.
“Christmas sale now on at Marks and Spencer.”
It was not him!
This little sad story is in response to the Trifecta: Week Fifty-Five challenge:
a: visualization of a future event or state
b: an object or form that anticipates a later type