Still there

Short fiction by Ansel.

“Don't let me forget the charger,” Jo said.

Alma put her phone beside the sewing tin. “Have you packed it?”

“I'm talking to you on it.”

“The charger.”

“I need that too.”

Alma pulled the thread through the eye of the needle. It divided into two fine ends on the other side. She licked them and started again.

From Jo's room came a succession of short thumps.

“What are you doing?”

“Deciding which shoes.”

“How many nights?”

“Two.”

There was another thump.

Alma had pinned one trouser leg and was using it to judge the other. The trousers were for the school concert tomorrow. Nobody would be looking at her ankles while she handed out programmes, but the hem had caught under her heel all evening.

“I've got the blue ones,” Jo said.

“Wear those, then.”

“They're in the case.”

“Take them out.”

“I've put my pants in them.”

Alma drew the needle through the folded cloth. “You could wear those too.”

Jo laughed, then made a noise as if she had been struck.

“What?”

“I sat on the hairbrush.”

For a while Alma sewed. She could hear a zip opening, a cupboard shutting, something being shaken. Jo hummed three notes, stopped, and hummed the same three again.

“What's that?” Alma asked.

“What?”

“The tune.”

“I don't know. It's waiting for the rest.”

Alma knotted the thread.

“Try them on,” she said.

“My pants?”

“Sorry. Talking to myself.”

“Don't let me interrupt.”

Alma put on the trousers and stood on a chair to see her ankles in the hall mirror. One leg was shorter than the other. She bent her right knee a little. That was better.

When she came back to the table, Jo was reading something under her breath.

“Is that the hotel?”

“My sister. She wants to know if I eat salmon.”

“You do.”

“I know.”

The phone went quiet. Alma unpicked six stitches. A piece of thread broke and stayed in the cloth; she teased it out with the needle.

“Still there?” Jo said.

“Yes.”

“Only you stopped arguing.”

“I've got a needle in my mouth.”

“All right.”

Alma took it out. “And yes, you eat salmon.”

“I've told her.”

There was a soft, continuous brushing sound.

“What are you doing now?”

“Folding.”

Alma dropped the unpicked thread into the lid of the sewing tin.

“Right,” Jo said. “Shut.”

“Already?”

“I sat on it.”

“The hairbrush?”

“The case. I'm going to get some tea.”

“Charger,” Alma said.

Jo's footsteps stopped.

“Oh.”

A zip travelled a short way, strained, and travelled back.

“I can hear it,” Jo said.

“Hear what?”

“My other phone. Ringing in the case.”

“You've packed the wrong one.”

“It's the work phone.”

“Leave it.”

Jo was quiet. The muffled ringing continued. Then something heavy slid across the floor and a door closed.

“Tea,” she said.

Alma made three small stitches. In Jo's kitchen the tap ran, then stopped. A mug rang against another mug.

“How many legs left?” Jo asked.

“One.”

“I'll stay till you've got two.”

Alma set the finished leg on her lap and moved the phone away from the loose pins.

---

The connected call in the published introduction to AlphaRomantiko’s Until We Became More prompted this scene.