Wrote this at 12PM, so that should you some indication as to the quality.

Sammy – November 23 – 19:59 PM

"I'll be working late again.

I know you don't- I know...

There's pizza in the fridge, if you want."

Click.

The message ends so suddenly, halfway through the last word, like she was in the middle of another run-on sentence when she cut herself off.

It's not usually like her to mumble.

There's three voicemails from Samantha on her phone.

If Mary had known she'd disappear, she'd have saved more of them.

And no, Samantha isn't dead, but she might as well be.

Maybe it would be easier if she was.

She can't look at pictures. Samantha's nose, her rich black hair, it's too much. Just her voice, if she shuts her eyes and rests her head against her mattress, she can bare it. Almost.

She taps the screen of her phone and another message plays. The phone rests against her ear, tangled in her light mahogany hair.

Sammy - November 30 – 18:26 PM

(The filtered background noise of a dying speaker.)

"I'll be coming by tomorrow, somewhere between twelve and two. Depending on when I can get away.

I'll be getting Filo and Stevie, and some records.

You don't have to be home.

(During a pause, you can hear the smacking of lips. Soft.)

I don't want to talk if you are."

Click

When Sam's voice cuts off, the echo lingers in the apartment for some moments, plastic and hollow. It was always such a small apartment, but without her it's endless.

Stevie's black hairs are still all over the bed. Filo's are there too, you just can't see them. Their tails crisscrossing at the end of the bed, their warmth at their feet.

Her records. Some of them, the ones she couldn't take with her, or didn't want to, or left for Mary, they're still there under the gramophone table.

She can't hold them in her hands, or look at them. She never got subdued tones and ticking drums. Maybe she would now.

If she opened her eyes, they would roll back in their sockets and look out the window above the bed, at the city. Her legs hang off the end, naked like the rest of her, because dressing is too hard.

Looking out that window at the stars outside, her hand around a slightly, just slightly pudgy stomach. Falling asleep together.

She has to sleep with an extra blanket now, for the heat Samantha took with her.

Her thumb touches the screen once again.

Sammy - December 2 – 19:41 PM

(She can hear the sounds of Central Station surrounding Samantha. She never thought she could recognize a place from so little, but she can. In Samantha's voice she can hear her brown duffel, the thick scarf wrapped around her neck, and the black, well-polished shoes on her small feet. Mary inhales, sharply.)

"My train is leaving in twenty minutes.

(There's a pause.)

I thought you should know.

(Wind pushes by. In the silences, Mary's thoughts roam. She wonders if it was snowing that day. She can't hear it, but she can see it in front of her, just like she can see Sam on the platform. Maybe, maybe if it was soft.)

I won't have this number much longer, so you don't need to call.

I'll be getting there about ten. I've got a place to stay for a while, don't worry."

In a space between her words, you can barely, barely hear a cat meow. Filo never liked being in his cage.

"Mary..." She doesn't finish her thought. A lady's voice announces the incoming train over a speaker. It's not Samantha's.

(The train rattles, stops, the doors push open and peoples' footsteps flood out. The sounds are so much louder than Sam's voice, like she was whispering. The train starts up again, and rattles on. Now all that can be heard is Samantha's short, steady breaths. Mary presses her back against the creases in the mattress. It's cool and dry. Her eyes are closed, she's alone, and Samantha breathes into her ear.)

(Her hand moves.)

There's a last, sharp intake of hair. The habitual "love you" before she's cut off is almost inaudible.

Click.

Mary lies on her bed, naked and in an unnatural position, in her empty, soundless room and with her eyes closed. The city lights her dark little room through the window. Traffic provides a soundtrack, but she can't pull the curtains, or she'll be alone.

One last time, her thumb caresses the plastic surface.

The electric feedback sings in her ear.

"I'll be working late again."