Theory X

“Mother has been dead…..”
“Don’t say it!” came the command from the other end of the line. With one heavily-gloved hand, Sara lifted the lid on the spaghetti boiling on the stove. It was writhing around in the roiling water like a nest of angry vipers.
“You need to clean your stuff out.”
She put the cordless down on the counter and poured contents of the pot into a strainer. Huge clouds of steam billowed up and around her head. The phone, and the barely discernable squawk from the phone were temporarily rendered invisible.
Sara was tired. The day had ended with barely a whimper at the forgettably-named ad agency where she’d labored over a phalanx of sketches that, in her opinion, far outshone the original idea. But instead of murmuring appreciatively over the finished products the ridiculously-named and even more ridiculously dressed studio manager had merely clucked and taken them away with not so much as a thank-you very much.

The phone nattered on in its resting place on the counter and Sara emptied a tin of sauce with mushrooms into another pot and put the flame on.
By-your-leave, indeed!
She was last to go. Left alone at the sketch table to finish up what had obviously been the most problematical of the toy line, the other freelancers slipping away as anonymously as they’d chosen to be all day. Bucket lights suspended from the ceiling were turned off and the studio had been emptied of all the useless hangers-on who did little more than attend meeting after meeting and doodle prodigiously on leather-bound binders before getting into their expensive cars and roaring off for some evening fun. She’d shrugged on her coat and said goodbye to the only other person visible, a sad-looking MIS grunt tinkering with a crashed MAC, and headed out into the night.
The winter night had come for her, and with it biting cold.

The phone went silent.
She calmly redialed and when the line was picked up, apologized.
“Sorry, juggling too many things and it nearly went into the soup.”
“Sara…..”
“Chip, you have to get your stuff once and for all.”
“What’s the damned hurry?”
Sara had heard this all before.
“Your shoes stink.”
There was more sputtering on the other end.
“And your socks, too.”
Superheated, the sauce puffed up like a bloodied soufflé. She quickly pulled it to safety and sighed audibly into the phone,
“I’m finished with this conversation, Chip. Get your junk out of here or it will be on the lawn…..the slushy, freezing lawn, by next week.”
Then she hung up.

When the phone rang again she had a mouthful of spaghetti.
“What!” she managed.
“Sara?”
The voice sounded familiar. The last of the spaghetti slid down her throat. Gone, gone.
“Is this Sara?”
“How the hell did you get this number!” she cried.
“Whoah, don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
“I’m eating,” she said unnecessarily. She was going to hang up anyway,
“No, wait!” It hovered near her ear.
“I got your number from your mother.”
Sara put the phone back as close as she could to her mouth.
“My mother, for your information, is dead.”
“I know.”
“You never knew her.”
“I did.”
Sara didn’t know how to respond to this.
“Please,” said Nate. “Please don’t hang up on me.”