Nothing more than the feel of vibration. The notion of an arrival of a text message. Your stomach gets a little knot. Could it be? Is it from?
No. Just a friend checking in.
Returning your iPhone to your pocket, it vibrates once. It’s just an e-mail. You relax. But then you think, it could be an e-mail from him. Naw. He’d text me. Not e-mail.
Still, it bugs the back of your mind until you check it later.
Finally, on a bathroom break, you send the obligatory, “How’s your day going?” message.
Not much communication during the day. Sporadic bursts of intense messages with long delays in between. Then that night-time, battery-draining flurry.
The night-time. That’s what you live for. That’s what you wait for. That’s what you wish for. That’s what you hope won’t stop.
For the day the vibration stops is the day you’re afraid he’s moved on to something more real. Something that’s not virtual. Something that won’t fit into a pocket. Something not cold, metal and plastic and glass.
Something flesh, warm and pliable.
And even then you’re afraid he’ll return to the promise of the other choices that are virtual and vibrational. The things not connected to you.