He’s not addicted. He could give up tomorrow. Just because he checked his emails during his children’s carol concert doesn’t mean he's not a good father. Or husband. Yes, he keeps the phone under his pillow, smiles in his sleep when it vibrates. But divorce. She’s got to be kidding.
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The tiny soft rubber pad tilted under his fingertips, its hard central spot sending a hormonal clue to the phone's brain. It was a mere split second between the reciprocal click and the appearance of the word on the screen. The predictive text would tell him what he had decided.
Juan checked the screen again. The tenth time since he’d sat down. Checked just in case he hadn’t heard it ring. Just in case Carlotta had sent him some small word of how she felt. There was no message, and it stung Juan that she was not thinking about him.
He knows he shouldn't have taken it, she'll notice it's missing, but he has to know if she's still seeing him. He's got ten minutes while she gets the drinks, quickly he scans through her texts. Oh God, his name is there, she's meeting him now by the refreshment stand.
Ha ha ha ha ha! I confess I am the same *sigh* But don't tell!
A true story. June 2005. Set somewhere between Twickenham and the south coast. It wasn’t the way she took her eyes off the road, hands off the wheel. Or even the way she broke his heart in 160 characters. It was that backlit screen, violent green, that never even flickered.
I love it!!!
I really love these photo stories!
Awesome!
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