In much of the world today, electronic devices dominate our lives: we tend to them when they call us, we are addicted to their slightest whimper, and we worry when they are lost or damaged. It is like flour babies turned digital and mutated in megabytes.
Andrew is the only man I had thought immune to this digi-addiction, dismissing His phone like an under-thanked secretary, but on this one occasion, Andrew scrutinized the screen. A frown melted gently through His softly chiseled features, and His brightness deflated. You could see a tender strain of melancholia linger in the corner of His eye, in the crumpling of his features and the after-midnight angle of his eyes. Perhaps a family member texted to say it was terminal. Perhaps something seen triggered inconsolable soreness—a city-flattening earthquake, a child killed, a beached whale—or perhaps he lost too much money betting on racing horse number 4, chosen for his discordant name—Flicker Quickly or Lightning First, perhaps.
Recording His rhythms, predicting His power plays–still, it all amounts to nothing. Still, I know so little about Andrew, His motives, His furrows, pleats and rises. He remains erratic yet curious and utterly beyond reach or saving. Like a cat, I follow, as finding out more becomes less safe and more obsessive.