“Good week?”
“So-so. You know. You?”
“Not bad. Jenny visited.”
“Nice. And the grandchildren?”
“No. All grown now. Too busy.”
“Of course. Understandable. Like we were.”
“Yes.”
A pause, memories provoked, echoes of distant lives.
“Busy week ahead?”
“Not really.”
“Me neither. Still …”
“We’re here. For each other.”
“Of course. A comfort. Always.”
And it is, every week, the consoling tedium of their conversation.
Until.
No answer.
The phone rings across a cold kitchen.
Futilely, she goes on listening.
Knowing this to be the last call, the line snapped, broken.