I am typing this out on my phone because my faithful, aged, and long-suffering Mike who had a cracked corner for months now, broke off a chunk from the motherboard and switched off this morning. More like, became unconscious. Mike, like yours truly, has had creaky bones, aches, and pains, from wear and tear. Mike is my twelve-year-old laptop. Mike and I have shared deep moments, that only he and my creator can fathom. I have made vision boards, with Mike giving ideas and prompts. I have edited manuscripts on him, whose typos and grammar gave him a headache. I have cried, writing my deep hurts and pains, with faithful Mike holding up as I wrote, sniffled, wrote some more, and then clicked delete. “Are you sure you want to delete?” We have travelled the world together. He has been more loyal than some human males.
Typing a long write-up on the phone notepad is uncomfortable, for lack of a better word, and I miss Mike. It is an unfamiliar space here, like when you get divorced. You are yanked out of your comfort zone. The mundane routine with its sense of security is replaced by hypervigilance. You watch your back all the time. You feel exposed. If, say, adultery was part of the reason for the divorce, you look at every other female and wonder, ‘Was she part of his liaisons?
