Hey, it’s just me, talking in my room.

I feel bad about something.

You know what.

I know you were there, all alone in the morgue, probably wondering what’s going on.

When I heard the message – Tanner said he could never get hold of me – I sat at the bench top staring at the stains built up in my teacup. Nothing happened so I replayed it, picking up bits I missed the first time.

He said it didn’t look like you ’cos you had a toupee that none of us knew about. He asked the mortician to take it off.

It ended like a newsbreak: Dad’s dead, Espie. Dad is dead.

I went to the salon to see Taryn about my roots – they needed a touch up anyway. After that I bought a fedora, black with polka-dot netting sweeping the brim. I’m not sure what I was thinking, it wasn’t hard to think about buying a hat. I told the cashier I needed it for race day.

Have you cut down? I said. Remember? Last time we spoke. Have you cooked for yourself lately? Does the TV have to be on so loud?

You went away to turn it down and probably lit up before coming back on the phone. You probably did. I don’t remember much of what you said. Something like I browned both sides of an egg.

Nana told everybody you were a very good rumba dancer. One of your mates said he’d only had two dances with you that ended up on the floor. Someone asked if I’d done enough to make you quit. All of the food went. You’d left for the crem by then.

When we cleared out your apartment, everything was stuck with nicotine.

I took a tub of ice cream I found in the freezer.

About Angela Wilson

Angela Wilson lives in Wellington City, Aotearoa, New Zealand. Her fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Flash Frontier, Literary Veganism, Versification and elsewhere. She holds an MCW from Auckland University of Technology, and her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions. Busy crowded places inspire her writing.

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