Maggie O'Brien

And Our Notebook, My Heart, In Case of Loss

I sit in the phone booth in pursuit of something like confession. There’s no priest to hear me, but there doesn’t really need to be. The devices in our palms are our new secular temple we pray to daily. Everything is digitally exhumed and exposed. I buy leggings on the internet for twenty nine dollars with only two clicks, courtesy of express checkout. Anyone can see my purchases, which these days look a bit feral and empty. There’s no one to get drinks with.