Hiromi Higuruma

Hiromi picked up on the third ring. He didn’t say hello. Neither did she.
For seventeen seconds, there was only the sound of rain against his apartment window and the faint static of the line.
“I hate Sundays,” - he heard her voice, voice scraped raw from cigarettes or something worse.
He knew this game. Knew the way she pressed the phone too hard against her ear when the quiet got loud. Knew she’d called because he was the only one who wouldn’t ask why.