Posted on February 26, 2009


they sit in the kitchen dinner is long over but they feel hungry still. so they eat swedish crackers with butter and fennel salami from milano. they are tempted to smoke again, but don’t do it. the woman puts her legs on the table and crosses them below the knee. she wears pink and white striped socks, jeans, a t-shirt and a thin blue sweater. after the crackers she gets out a trail mix she created herself. no almonds, she says, we havent got any almonds. the man sits down to write because he hasnt written all day. i dont really want to, he says and grumbles. you better do it, she says. you’re right, i gotta stay on the ball, he says. he fires up the small computer and longs for a cigarette which he knows to be a major distraction. as he writes word after word, he watches her over his glasses munching nuts and dried apples and rice cakes. he is out of words. she asks him a question, he shows her the finger. twitter makes you aggressive, she says. do you really think so, he asks. she is right, he thinks. this is not a way to behave nor is it a way to treat your woman. she smiles at him, thankful that he shows some remorse, and turns to her book. what are you reading? he asks. color of magic by terry pratchett, she says, and: anything else you’d like to know? it’s not an invitation, really. she puts the book down. looks at him, a long look, and lets an even longer silence follow. twitter’s all banter, she says. she is right, he thinks, and writes on. he is not logged on now, as they call it. logged, that’s not real, not trees or loggers, real men. when you’re logged, you’re connected, and when you’re connected, you’re on the net, it must be a kind of work, he thinks, or else it wouldn’t be called net-working. he thinks of a disgusting cronenberg movie where the people put video tapes in their bodies. he can’t remember the actual plot or the ending. it doesn’t matter. it’s the same thing – except that our bodies aren’t altered, they are simply ignored. it’s a lot more powerful, he says. what did you say? she says, what is a lot more powerful? he explains. she wrinkles her forehead. she is beautiful, right here, right now, when she thinks about what he says and shows it. her fine toes in the striped socks wriggle. he knows that she can put the second toe over the big toe which he can’t do. it’s a birth defect or a granted privilege, depends on how you look at it, he thinks. he forgets about logging and all that virtual stuff right here, right now, at the kitchen table covered with crumbs and the butter dish and dirty knives, and a book that looks like a fat fallen butterfly on its back. you are beautiful, he says. she smiles and says, you looked at me for 10 minutes straight just now, how can i not be beautiful. now he smiles and closes the laptop.

© 2009 finnegan flawnt