You wake up and think of her. Try not to check your phone till you've had a cup of tea. A bowl of cereal. You tell yourself that having a decent breakfast, having yourself a full stomach means you’re more likely to pick up the phone, call her in good spirits. 

You take a work call, go running, make a sandwich. You treat yourself – whole grain mustard with Seriously Mature Cheddar. You decide to do this more often. Splash out. Let yourself have it. 

You think about calling her but send a message instead. Busy at work today. How are you? She replies immediately. Phone when you can. You call in the 15 minute gap you have between leaving your house and getting on the train for dinner with friends. I have about 15 minutes. She talks quickly. Tells you she might put the washing outside even though it’s forecast to rain. She asks you if you’ve heard from the council. Reminds you it’s urgent.  

You think about how one day it’s likely you won’t have her to call. How it’s both the most difficult and easy thing for you to spend time with her. How you hold your tongue too much and not enough. Why is talking so hard? Is it something to do with your ears? Maybe it’s something about her voice. You know that one day, you won’t have her to call.
 
Sometime later, you overhear a phone call on the bus. Care is labour and labour is care. And it makes it easier to call her this time. You finish your sandwich as she talks. You think you wish things were different somehow; that maybe you could say sorry and she could say thank you.