She was not home. Despite the numerous chairs, sofas, tables, and TV stands, she was not at home. But she spoke as if they were together, nephew and aunt; volume unregulated. “Glenn!” she cried, catching the attention of onlookers and salespersons. She tucked herself at a corner between a wall and a bookshelf. “Where are you? Home? Okay. I’m coming for you.” She clasped one hand around her phone and cupped the other on her mouth as if the shouting would get to him better. “Wait for me. Wait for me, okay?” she chanted as the other end of the line cried die and motherfucker, alone and die. “I’m coming. I’m coming home,” she comforted. But the shouting and cries continued.
(writing practice inspired by unphotographable.com)