Her cell phone sat in its charger, its blinking red message light further soured her mood.
Freyja hated cell phones. Not that she was a Luddite, her computer had the latest image editing software and her camera was, well, adequate – as good as she could afford at the moment.
She spent a lot of time in her own mind. She liked it there, constantly noticing streetscapes, patterns, and colors that would make interesting photographs. She carried on an inner dialogue that, while she had to admit was critical, helped her make sense of what she experienced. She planned and schemed, considered and disregarded, fantasized and daydreamed all about the acclaim and success she would someday (soon) achieve.
When the cell phone rang it jarred her, like breaking off the meditation. Usually it was someone she didn’t want to speak to, always it was someone she could talk to later, who could leave a message that could be returned at her convenience. Cell phones were invasive and obnoxious, like the people that answered them interrupting whatever they were doing – like speaking to her. The cell phone inflated these people with self-importance as if their friends, the economy, the entire fucking world could not function without being in constant contact with them.
Freyja seldom turned her phone on except to make a call. There were always messages in her voice mail. Sometimes she checked them, most times she pressed ‘erase all’. Freyja had a theory the important people and their communications would somehow reach her. The rest would give up trying. She didn’t have any basis for believing this except she felt it was sort of a cosmic law. After all, people got along, great deeds were done, and fame was achieved before the cell phone was invented.
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