He's attached by a balloon string to his job. At work, he's mostly off on his own, bobbing in one place with his phone, his eyes on the screen where his real life is unfolding.
His glazed-over eyes and faint "mm-hms." Another short, unsatisfying conversation.
Her voice doesn't have any inflection when she describes her day. Mostly, she talks about other people. Who said this and that and the other thing.
The cold stone basement dust smell of an old dim house.
They tell me I'm old for sending emails. It's almost entirely texts for them now, and half the texts lack text, they're a barrage of emojis. (And I feel old complaining about this, as if I'm shaking my fist from my imaginary front porch, where I sit with curmudgeonly dignity on a rocking chair and communicate with the wider world via telegraph.)
Two young boys get a pink kite going in the breeze. It looks like a floating piece of candy.
I'm not sure why I like gefilte fish. It's basically a brick of fish matter.