The Smart Phone


He pauses. His tongue is slightly out of his mouth while he taps against me for the millionth time. I wonder when he will talk again and connect with me on a different level, but it never seems to happen. I know it’s me that’s changed, but I can’t take the entire blame.

The touch screen was supposed to be a great idea. Sticky fingers press against my body, I can feel their smear stains skidding across. Conversations are captured for life, but words are lost and the tone makes me squirm with boredom. It’s the future, it’s what people want, it’s everything I have, but everything I’m not.

He glides his hands forward and I wish he wouldn’t use me, but what can I say? The connection is lost.

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6 thoughts on “The Smart Phone

  1. Pingback: Short-Form Fiction on the Blog | Chris W. Martinez

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