“I know.” I said.
He’s a minister in some far fold of Iowa, one of those places with an annual Corn Princess and prize pigs. My pointer finger mashed the end call button. The iPhone played smooth and white into my palm like the pills assigned to me from the psychiatrist I found through our seminary. There was a Blackberry before that, thrown into Lake Michigan, a symbolic act to separate myself from contacts and nice things. I planned to be devout like a monk. I would become good, read scripture by candlelight and pray with the precision of a glasscutter.
I’m embarrassed now thinking of that Blackberry pinging off the spray-painted rocks, sinking with the…
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