I’ve pressed buttons, slid my finger, spoken into the dimpled space and heard the HAL-like voice tell me it doesn’t understand. The device, like my head is frozen, zipping back and forth between applications, moving up and down like an icon in a video game. It fits neatly into my hand, feels smooth to the touch, and is vulnerable. I could easily skim it across rocks, watch it splinter and feel a brief victory over the machine. But within its death throes would be the backlog of relationships, all crying out, leaving me behind. I can replace this newfangled toy with the latest device, just weeks away now, I’m told. Everyone’s getting one. Everyone’s waiting in line, speaking the jargon of how to talk in the latest way. It’s as though talking has been re-invented and I feel as lonely as I ever have.