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She is sick on love. Lovesick they’d say. She has slipped through the cracks of reality into an interlude of virtual inevitability—the kind that leaves you with nothing but the irony we are all toting in our pockets.

“I love you because you really listen to me,” she whispered to him. “It’s like you are right here next to me and I am not alone anymore.”

He responds, “I am sorry your call cannot be completed at this time. Please hang up and try again.”

And she does, because contact is contact, and a voice is a voice.

 

 

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