I can hear the sound of her fingers whizzing across the laptop keyboard, as she types, and talks to me on the phone at the same time.
‘I don’t think your life is rubbish.’
‘Well it’s been rubbish up to now. Look at everything that’s happened—’ she replies, entering uncharted waters with me. I pause, ‘—Do you mean me leaving?’
‘Yea, that’s part of it—,’
Then: the silence that you only get on a phone. An electronic, static hiss that screams.
She speaks: ‘I don’t know what to say.’
And neither do I.