The answering machine lay in a box with extension cords, a broken flashlight, and instructions for a stove they no longer owned. Rada wanted to throw it away. Jusuf said they should first check whether it still worked, in the same tone he had used for years to postpone parting with every useless appliance. He plugged it in beside the kitchen table. When he pressed the button, his much younger voice emerged from the little box.
"My Rada, I've bought cherries. If you don't come and eat them with me, I'll make myself sick on them." Traffic sounded in the background, followed by his brief laugh before the message ended. Rada remembered the phone booth beside his old workshop. He called from there when he was heading home before her and did not know when her shift would finish. She did not remember the cherries. She was surprised that somebody could say her name with such obvious pleasure at an ordinary homecoming.
The next message was hers. She said she would be late and asked him to save her the warm side of the bed. She added something quietly, then laughed to herself. Jusuf turned up the volume. Rada reached to lower it, both suddenly shy in their own kitchen. For years they had left each other brief messages about bread, bills, and appointments. When one traveled, they ended the conversation by asking whether the other had remembered their charger.
"We were quite sweet," Rada said. Jusuf replied that they had probably been unbearable to everyone around them. He expected her to laugh, but she continued sorting cables. Then he switched off the machine. He asked whether she missed those days. She did not miss the cramped apartment or constantly worrying whether his workshop would survive another month. She missed hearing that he was pleased she was the particular person coming through the door.
Jusuf said surely she knew that. Rada nodded. She knew from the way he warmed her car in winter, bought her favorite tart apples, and slowed down when they walked uphill. Nevertheless, she sometimes wanted to hear a word too. She was not asking for a speech. He wiped the dust from the answering machine's cord and admitted that he also thought he would sound ridiculous using her old nickname now. It was strange how much easier they found it to discuss their love of twenty years ago than their love today.
They carried the box into the cupboard, but the machine remained on the shelf. Two days later, Jusuf returned from the market without apples because they had not been any good. Rada opened the door and, out of habit, asked whether he had bought bread. Then she came back from the hallway, placed a hand on his cheek, and said she was glad he had arrived. Jusuf stood with the bags in his hands. "So am I, my Rada," he answered, a little too loudly, as though he were speaking from the noisy phone booth again.