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…