[ After ten minutes — ten minutes of staring at her phone screen, thumbing through pages she doesn't really see as she waits for a response, any response except no response — she gets out of bed. Pours a glass of water from the filter pitcher they keep in the fridge. Sits at the little two-person table in their kitchen with her knees tucked up to her chest. (Wonders, in the way you wonder about the worst, if she should turn on the TV and check the news.)
Thirty minutes after that, her phone dings again.
In the dim blue light, she blinks away the last haze of sleep, her fingers automatically finding the crease in her brow as if smoothing it out might smooth out the wrinkles in the night, too. (As if bumps in the road take forty minutes to get over.) Still, she picks up after the first ring. ]
You think?
[ Endlessly fond, despite her best efforts, though the brightness in her tone — relief at hearing his voice, that he doesn't sound hurt — soon tempers itself, the way all flares do. ]
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Thirty minutes after that, her phone dings again.
In the dim blue light, she blinks away the last haze of sleep, her fingers automatically finding the crease in her brow as if smoothing it out might smooth out the wrinkles in the night, too. (As if bumps in the road take forty minutes to get over.) Still, she picks up after the first ring. ]
You think?
[ Endlessly fond, despite her best efforts, though the brightness in her tone — relief at hearing his voice, that he doesn't sound hurt — soon tempers itself, the way all flares do. ]
Are you gonna be home soon?