Chapter Twenty-three
Matthew sat with his head in his hands on the thirty-year-old couch. A tatty piece of furniture. A relic that didn’t belong in this expendable world. A comfy concoction of beige and black corduroy, faded and frayed at the edges. Unfitting for this time, this place, this reality. No different to Matthew, really. Matthew and his newly acquired couch. Has-beens.
Fighting off lethargy, he drew in a deep breath, rose to his feet and took two steps across the grey carpet to the phone. This was something he could do at least, to make himself useful: access calls he might have missed when dozing in front of Days of our Lives.
None of the messages were new. He listened again to the old ones. Hearing once more Rosetta’s warmly rich voice, and her increasing concern with each
