Hey, he says, softly over the white noise.
Looking up, I blink back anger and shame,
and I feel like a child caught with one too many cookies,
and the nagging ache in my stomach
telling me I’ve eaten too much.
I look back down towards the blue light,
pulled by the hundred virtual connections I must maintain,
and the one real, breathing, connection that I have
sitting in his oversized orange chair, smiling at me,
drawing me out of the twittering chatter,
whose face I can kiss, and whose beard tickles my neck when we hug,
this is what I chose to be angry with.
And the hilarity of the moment,
with a book of faces all bewitched and calling my name
and the non-stop stream of 26 letters arranged in 140 different ways,
and this, this, I chose instead of his smile?
How absurd, I think.
And quietly compose my tweet.