by Ian Villmore<\/p>\n
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The worst part about cell phones<\/em>? he mused. They erode one\u2019s impulse control<\/em>. How else could he explain reflexively tapping his passcode into the dating app every five minutes; squinting at the small print, terrified he might miss a notification from her? Nothing. Could be worse. Ghosting on dating apps is so common it\u2019d become his default expectation.<\/p>\n \u200bPeople passed by him on the street oblivious to the clacking whirligig in his head.<\/p>\n He scrolled through weeks\u2019 worth of their messages. It\u2019d started with a casual remark based on her interest in botany, blossoming into genuine responses both complex and personal. Words stitched them tightly together. Like lichen,<\/em> he thought, two lifeforms meshed into one<\/em>.<\/p>\n This had to be real. If it wasn\u2019t, then what did that say? He knew that the internet wasn\u2019t reality. Well, not real in the terra firma way. But God, these months made it hard to convince him otherwise. If his bones had rings like trees this year\u2019s ring would be wide, especially compared to the recent years of drought.<\/p>\n He forced himself to put his phone in his jacket pocket and paced in front of the cafe they\u2019d agreed to meet at.<\/p>\n He looked up. She wasn\u2019t quite the same as her picture, but no one ever is. He did not hesitate. Making a beeline straight for her, he held her tight and kissed her. She kissed back.<\/p>\n This was real.<\/p>\n His lips smiled against hers.<\/p>\n \u201cHi,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n She grinned back. \u201cHi.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n I am a teacher living in southern Maine. I am a graduate of both Lesley University and Emerson <\/span>College. My work has previously appeared at 101 Words<\/em>. If I’m not in the classroom, I can be <\/span>found hiking Maine’s many mountains.<\/span><\/p>\n
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