Your phone

Your phone lights up. It is your mother's name.

Something happens before you have read a word. Before you have done anything except see the name on the screen.

You are at the kitchen table. You were in the middle of eating. The fork is still in your hand. You are not moving.

Your phone is lit up with your mother's name and something in the centre of your chest has shifted. Not clenched — just changed. The way a room changes when a door opens in another part of the house.

You put the fork down.

You pick up the phone.

It is about the weekend. She is asking about the weekend.

You read it again. Still the weekend. You put the phone down.

You pick up the fork. The food is still there. Everything is the same as it was twelve seconds ago.

You are not sure what you thought it was going to say.