Remote Relationship

Flash Fiction

They barely bother with me anymore. I sit on the coffee table like an ornament most days, buttons dulled, plastic scuffed, watching them scroll past each other. There was a time oh, a time, when I was almost as good as a mobile phone. Better, even. I connected them to something shared. A screen. A story. A reason to sit close. Now I’m just… there.

The husband sits on the left of the sofa. The wife sits on the right. Between them: the middle cushion. An island. Neutral territory. Unclaimed land no one dares cross. It has become geographical fact in their living room like a sea separating two continents that once fitted together perfectly.

I remember when that cushion didn’t exist. Or rather, it existed but served a purpose, back support, headrest, occasional grab on to thingy during laughing fits. Now it’s a border dispute no one discusses.

And yes. I know this is partly my fault and I still feel so guilty about it….

All this started years ago. The world cup was on. High stakes. Penalties. Shouting. I was clutched tightly in his hand like a weapon. Then she said it the fatal sentence “Can we watch the soaps?” I hesitated. I should have chosen wisely. I should have frozen. Instead, I obeyed. A click. Football gone just as the deciding pen was due to be taken Gasps. Accusations. “You did that on purpose. “It was an accident.” It never is, apparently, when I’m involved.

From then on, the arguments stacked up. Missed recordings. Wrong inputs. Volume too loud, then too quiet. Me dropped. Me blamed. Me lobbed onto the sofa in rage. Slowly, they stopped fighting over what to watch… because they stopped watching together at all.

Phones replaced me. Individual screens. Individual worlds. Silence, but not the peaceful kind. Tonight, though, something shifts. “Traitors is on,” she says. He nods. They sound almost… aligned. Phones are put down. I’m picked up. My light flickers on. I feel important again. Nervous, but important.

They sit. Island cushion still firmly in place dividing them, but at least they seem to be looking at the same screen. Then inevitably a mini row. “You’re sitting miles away.” “I like space.” “You didn’t before.” The air tightens. This is it. The moment where I usually get dropped, blamed, exiled.

But no. Not tonight.

I act.

Just before the show starts, just before the theme music, I slide. A deliberate escape. Down the side of the sofa, into the crack between worlds. Darkness. Dust. Destiny. “ Where’s the remote now?” he says. They both lean forward. Hands search. The island shifts. Knees touch accidentally. No one pulls away.

“You always lose it,” she mutters. “You were holding it,” he replies, but there’s a laugh tangled in it now. They’re searching together. United by mild inconvenience and excitement to watch the show. They end up closer, rummaging together, laughing despite themselves when I stubbornly refuse to appear.

Finally, they give up. The husband gets up to manually press the button on the TV. When he sits back down, there’s no cushion between them. It seems silly to retrieve it now.
They miss the first minute of the show, but no one cares. Their knees touch. A hand finds another hand. I sit hidden, smug in the darkness, listening to their laughter sync up again. For once, I don’t want to be found.

The End