The Lost Phone

Mia stopped at the supermarket on her way home from work with the vague intention of buying a few things. She had a shopping list on her phone, but by the time she reached the till, she was balancing bread, apples and a bottle of milk in both arms. To free a hand, she set her phone down beside the card reader and paid, her mind already half on the evening ahead.

Outside, she decided to call her brother. She searched her coat pockets, then her handbag, finding her keys and an apple that had escaped from the shopping bag, but no phone. She retraced her path along the pavement, scanning the ground as she went. Nothing. By the time she reached the corner, a cold unease had started to spread through her chest.

Her first thought was that somebody had taken it, a theory which she distrusted even as she formulated it. Then she remembered consulting her list just before paying. The memory was precise enough to be useful: she could picture the screen, the card reader, her own hand reaching for the apple. She turned round and went back into the supermarket to explain her problem to the cashier.

“Was it a black phone?” he asked. Mia nodded. He glanced along the counter, lifted a long receipt that had drifted across the surface and picked up the phone from underneath. Mia felt a rush of relief. The cashier remarked that customers left things there all day, because the shop was so busy that people paid with their minds elsewhere.

On her way out, she slid the phone into the zipped pocket inside her bag. Standing outside the door, she called her brother, who answered with a laugh. “Lost something again?” he asked. “Not for long,” Mia replied. She checked the pocket one last time before heading home, and the small gesture felt like a promise to herself.