Prompt: My Favorite
What’s the most time you’ve ever spent apart from your favorite person? Tell us about it.
She checked Facebook again. Still no updates, messages, or likes. It had been twenty four hours, maybe longer. She reached for her cell phone and scanned through Messages, What’s App, and KIK. Nothing. Was her hand trembling? She took a deep breath and clicked the Instagram icon. There was the selfie she last posted, that morning, she in her bunny pyjamas that she thought was funny. Ha, grown woman in flannel PJs. No one else was amused; at least there was no acknowledgement of the picture, nothing at all.
Her Twitter feed had gone cold.
Email inbox was empty, even the commercial account. She was not stupid; she checked her spam folder. No new messages since yesterday afternoon.
She looked out the window in the silence. A lone car crawled down the street in front of her house. She couldn’t tell if the driver was a man or a woman. There was just a shadow behind the wheel. They reached the end of the block, and turned left. The street was empty and cold, the light flat in the overcast midwinter light. It looked like a black and white photograph.
The wait for a human voice was only thirteen minutes. She timed it. The voice was deep, mellow, and soothing. She took her time, spelling out her name and her address, taking a moment to locate serial numbers. There were no outage reports. Her devices were connected and functional, a speed test showing her at the top of her subscribed range.
“Everything seems to be working,” said the soothing voice.
She checked Facebook again. Still no updates, messages or likes. Another hour or two had passed. There were no messages. Her hand trembled. Instagram was frozen, Twitter as silent as the grave, and no email had arrived in her virtual inbox.
Nothing. There was nothing. She was completely alone. She thought of taking a walk, but the day was unfriendly. She thought of reading a book, but the words blurred on the page. She thought of making a sandwich, but the cupboards were bare.
She thought of posting again to Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, and of sending messages through What’s App and email. It was pointless.
She thought of looking at herself in the mirror. She was too afraid to look.
So she sat at the kitchen table with her laptop. She went to that site, the one she liked, where the news was current and freshly presented. She made a new account, signed in, and called one of her favorite commenters a Feminazi, then asked why there was no White Awareness Month?
She waited. And the replies came. She felt a liquid rush of relief, the closest thing to an orgasm she had ever experienced. She typed some more. She made tea.
Fluffy Pool 