It's not like the movies. There is no blinking red of an answering machine to tell her, no message echoing in the resounding silence, no, just a text received between classes and looked at when her teacher's finally facing the other direction: sorry honey, have to work late tonight, you'll have to have curry without me.
Ringo lingers over it on the train ride home, pink painted nail on the precipice of delete. Indecision wins and she stuffs her phone back into her bag, looking out the window with dry eyes. Disappointment and Oginome Ringo are old friends and really, what a stupid thing to get worked up about; to cry over.
Who even has answering machines anymore, Ringo thinks, leaning her fist against her cheek. Get with the times already and invest in a cellphone; that's what voicemail's for.