𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒, f.gamers

one.

I cannot understand how Noah does it. Where he finds the energy to work out so much. My mom used to be my driving force, dragging me along to the gym at least twice a week to make sure I got my workout in. Now that I live alone, it's harder. Everything is harder, actually, but I make do. It is just about pushing through. 

As if sensing me thinking about her, my phone lights up with a call from 'Mama'. I pick it up.

"Hi, mom."

"Hiya, sweetie. How is college?" My mom asks, voice chirp. I can picture her as she speaks, sitting on the veranda, a cup of coffee and a pastry beside her, looking out at the sky, at her garden, dressed in her 'home clothes' as she calls them. Sweats, a thin t-shirt and some sweatshirt, preferably crocheted. I imagine that it's light blue, like the one she wore when I was a kid. Maybe it's even the same one. 

"It's alright. A lot of studying," I say.

She doesn't laugh.

"As one would expect. How are your grades? Have you made any friends?" 

It is the same questions every time, the same routine. She lives half an hour away, yet we haven't seen each other in two months. We never have the time, we always say. It's not true, and we both know it, but I quite enjoy our little calls, and I imagine that she does too. She is enjoying her alone time now that her kids have both moved out. Relishing in the feeling of just being Amelia Blythe. Not someone's mom, or wife, or girlfriend. Just Amelia. A forty-eight year old cat owner and elementary teacher. 

"My grades are good." I pick at my nails. "No friends so far, though." 

"That's a shame. Why not? Have you talked to anyone?"

I have the urge to roll my eyes and tell her 'yes' in a tired tone, as if she is stupid to even ask that. The problem is I cannot, because I have not talked to anyone at my college unless I absolutely had to. Unless my professors count, then I have talked to someone, multiple someones'. But I suspect that is not what she is asking for.

"No, mom."

"Well, you should," she says. As if I did not know that.

"Mm," I hum, doing anything to occupy my hands, a reason to not pay attention to her words. She cannot get angry at me for doing the dishes and missing out on a few words, can she?

My mother sighs.

"Are you at least enjoying yourself? Do you talk to any of your friends?"

"Yes, I talk with Lynsey a lot. We have phone calls."

"And what about Noah?"

I can't help the small sigh that escapes me. I wish she had not asked me that. Sometimes I think my mother knows me better than I do, yet she proves me wrong sometimes. Maybe she just knows those special things that I try to hide. 

"He's busy. So am I. Our schedules don't match up anymore." 

She must hear the disappointment in my voice, because her tone changes from lifeless and acceptably polite to pitying.

"Oh, sweetie, I'm sure you guys could plan something and make it work," she says. 

"Yeah," I say.

I close the dishwasher. Was there not something I had to do? 

"Is he doing all right? Is Lynsey alright?" 

I rack my brain to remember.

"They're fine."

The essay on Shakespeare. That is it. Shit. I have not even started yet. 

"That's good. You know, I miss your baking. I don't think I've had a home baked cookie for weeks now. The lady next door gave me a jar of pumpkin spice cookies, but I finished them too quickly."

What is it supposed to focus on now again? His plays, or his poems? Or is it the culture of theatre and screenwriting back in England when he was alive? When was that now again?

"Sweetie, are you listening?"

"Mhm."

Eighteen hundred something? Or was it seventeen? Sixteen? How embarrassing that I cannot even remember the century of Shakespeare. 

I do not notice the long pause on the call, too occupied with my own thoughts. Mom has stopped talking.

"You're distracted," she says. 

"Huh? Oh, sorry mama, I just have a really big project to finish." And start. "Can I call you back in a couple of days? Maybe tomorrow, if things work out."

"That sounds good, darling. Take care of yourself."

"I will, mom. Good bye." I smile, hoping that she can hear it through the phone. 

"Bye, Maxi. Love you."

"I love you, mama." I hang up. 

When is the essay due? I have to look that up.