The Writer Receives a Phonecall

“Despite your name,” I said, “I don’t really know anything about you.”

“That’s true,” Raine agreed, avoiding my eyes. “But would you chase me if I chose not to disclose any info?”

He sounds like a cop. I sighed, and shook my head. After all, I shouldn’t become a hypocrite, should I?

It was silent again. I took the dishes and started washing them in the sink; with a white apron tied around my waist, I might have passed as a housewife.

The apron belonged to Mama before me; there’s an apple she embroidered on the pocket, covering up a rip I made when I was ten.

The suds were climbing their way up my arms, and I had the urge (as I always do) to shake them off. But who’d do the dishes then?

I wonder if Emma’s snagged that businessman yet—maybe she’s already gotten him into a figurative headlock, and forced him into an interview.

The phone rang, and I reached for it, even with my soapy hands.

I picked it up, and smiled to myself when I heard who was on the phone.

“Hi, dad.”

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