Close Up

I want to hold you in my hands all the time. I usually do hold you in my hands; I like the weight of your body on my palm. Sometimes I skim your surface with my fingertips, feeling the smoothness. There are about ten scratches on your right side, barely visible, unless the light catches them just so — when it does, I catch my breath. You perfection is marred. It was that time when the dog jumped on me; you fell and skidded on the concrete floor.

Your shape signals dynamism, the rounded edges temper it with tenderness. I love to press your button, soft and yielding, but only just so. I don’t do it as much as I would like to, I’m too afraid of ruining it like I ruined the on-button. It still looks perfect, but it does not work as it used to. It’s my fault. I pressed too hard that one time you were too slow to respond. I don’t mind the marks and the two little cracks on your edge. It makes you feel lived-in. Sometimes I ‘disrobe’ you and marvel at your back, even smoother and glossier than the front. I gaze at the shiny apple, and sometimes I can see my eye looking back at me from the silvery surface. There’s a hint of dirt in places too deep to reach. The band around your frame is shiny, but not as shiny as it used to be. I can see the tiniest dark spots, are they rust? Impact marks? Are they multiplying? Time is not gentle with anyone but the rocks on a shore.

When you light up, the world is at my fingertips. Through you I can learn, I can talk, I can write, I can see, I can remember, I can forget, I can make time go slow or fast, I can sing, I can play, I can connect to the world, I can be alone. I am alone. I couldn’t live without you. I love you, my shiny iPhone. And yet, when I’ll get the chance for a newer model, I’ll jump at it. Does that make me a bad person?

I wonder, is that how middle-aged men feel about their first wives?