New Number, Same Person

Nadia's texts come from a different area code now. I noticed that on the first one, the way you notice a new haircut on someone before you notice what they're actually saying. Her number changed when she switched carriers after the move, and for about two seconds I almost didn't open it.

It wasn't a big exchange. She asked if I'd done anything interesting with the new year. I said I'd taken a pottery class and made something that immediately collapsed. She sent back a string of lowercase letters that basically translated to "that is extremely you," which, fair. I told her Gerald had a new leaf. She said to give him her regards. That was it, more or less. Four minutes of back-and-forth and then we both went back to our respective Mondays in our respective cities.

I don't know what I expected it to feel like. It felt fine. It felt the way it should feel when a friendship is real enough to survive a zip code change, a little stilted around the edges, like a conversation resuming in the middle, both of you slightly unsure where you left off. But warm. Definitely warm.

Gerald and the bowl. Both survivors.

I put my phone down after and just stood at the counter for a minute. Gerald was doing his thing on the windowsill. The pottery bowl was doing its thing, which is to say, sitting there being collapsed and not apologizing for it. Two objects keeping each other company in the winter light. I thought: that's probably how this goes now. You check in. You say the small things. You keep the thread.

The waiting-for-a-reply posture. A classic.