PEOPLE WE STILL KNOW THROUGH A SCREEN

Letter 021 NEW

We Don’t Talk, But I Know What You Had for Dinner.

We don't talk.

But I know you moved to a different part of Dallas.

I know you got a new job.

I know you were at the State Fair.

I know who you watched the Cowboys game with.

I know you got a new dog.

I know you went to dinner in Deep Ellum.

I know entirely too much about a life I'm no longer part of.

Which is strange.

Because once I knew what you were afraid of.

I knew who you called when something went wrong.

I knew what I'm fine sounded like when you weren't.

I knew the stories behind the stories.

Now I know you ordered tacos.

That's a very weird downgrade in intimacy.

We went from knowing each other's secrets to knowing each other's content.

I don't know how you're actually doing.

But I know you went to a concert Friday.

I don't know what keeps you awake anymore.

But I know you bought new shoes.

I don't know who you call when you're having the kind of day you used to call me about.

But apparently I know where you went for brunch.

This is how we lose people now.

Not completely.

That would almost be simpler.

We never completely lose people anymore.

They just become little circles at the top of a screen.

Every once in a while, there you are.

Ten seconds at a baseball game.

Seven seconds of someone's birthday.

A picture of your dog.

A drink.

A sunset.

A plate of food.

Tiny pieces of a life I used to get the full version of.

And the strangest part is that after enough time, this starts to feel normal.

I don't reach for my phone to tell you things anymore.

I don't expect your name to show up.

I don't know your problems.

You don't know mine.

But every few days, an app casually reminds me:

Oh, right.

There you are.

Still existing.

Still familiar.

Still somebody I used to know without needing captions.

Sometimes I wonder if disappearing completely would have been easier.

Instead, I get to watch you exist twelve seconds at a time.

Anyway.

The tacos looked good.