Kaleidoscope

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Have you ever met someone who amazes you? Their heart is so full of love they don’t know where to put it, so it often goes to all the wrong places. Despite their flaws, faults, and failures, they have a magnetic energy that captivates you. They are, simply put, beautiful. But in their intrinsic beauty is an inherent brokenness. The beauty you see is invisible to them.

Kaleidoscopes allow us to change our view in an instant without effort. Mirrors are fit inside a tube filled with broken bits of glass and beads. The three mirrors inside play tricks on us based on the principle of multiple reflection. Three mirrors allow for three different view points. When put together, they provide a reflection of a reflection of a reflection, and so on. When you hold a kaleidoscope up to the light and twist the tube around, the tumbling of arbitrary broken bits and colored objects becomes reflected in the mirrors, presenting the eye with beautiful shapes and patterns. The origin of the word stems from the Greek words, kalos or beautiful, eidos or form, and scopos or watcher. The word kaleidoscope literally means “the beautiful form watcher” or “observer of beautiful forms.” The beauty comes from multiple views. The reflections let you see infinite richness and depth that couldn’t have existed if there had only been one mirror and one reflection.

kaleidoscope

The moment you met this beautiful person, you became a kaleidoscope-an observer of a beautiful form. The thing that breaks your heart is you know they could see it, too… if only they looked at the reflections in your mirror.

Hope

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“Thank you for holding up my hope,” she said. I’ve been sitting in my living room with the lights off for at least forty-give minutes. It’s pitch black in here and I can only hear the muffled sounds of traffic gliding by my windows. I am crying into my down-alternative blanket on the couch where I’ve been sleeping for the past few nights. I’ve been having terrible nightmares, In the back of my mind I know things in my life are off-kilter. I choose to ignore these facts by day, but they all come out to play at night while I have my guard down. This has resulted in me sleeping restlessly in my bed, tossing and turning all night, falling out of the side of my bed, trying to sleep with my head where my feet should be. I have contorted myself in ways that would make Cirque du Soleil performers proud, all for the sake of sleep.

I am crying so loudly that I’m afraid of keeping my upstairs neighbors awake. I know they get up at 4:30 am, because I hear them every morning. They are not loud. Quite the contrary-they are the most polite upstairs neighbors I have ever had, but I hear everything when I am trying to sleep, like the world is hooked up to a microphone connected to a speaker in my ear. I am beginning to cry so hard that I think I might throw up, so I take a deep breath, which makes me feel worse. I wipe the tears from my eyes. They are so puffy, and my head is throbbing. All the while, I am wondering how I have been helping her, because I am such a mess. How could I ever possibly bring something to someone’s life? This is a thought more ridiculous than the Easter Bunny dressed up as Santa and I almost laugh at the thought, but nothing is funny right now, which is especially obvious as I wipe my very wet nose on my sweatshirt sleeve, leaving a dampness behind.

This will result in a load of laundry, I think. I notice how very busy my mind is and I am fighting the urge to do something-go for a run, clean my bathroom, go for a drive, go to the grocery store. For some reason, I do not want to be alone right now and I am terrified of the silence in my apartment. Just as I am on the verge of a panic attack, the B line rolls by Washington Street and the conductor rings the bell, which startles me momentarily, then calms me. I would pay someone to hold me right now. I don’t understand why men (and women) pay for sex-that has always been something very easy for me to find, but intimacy is another story. I would empty my bank accounts right now to have someone hold me and feel like they’re really present, like they’re very aware of the tears falling from my eyes. And if these emotions-this fear, this sadness, this anxiety could be transformed like Play Doh into a human, that the person holding me would keep me safe and never let go until the coast was clear. I know this is unrealistic, and I reach for a tissue to blow my nose in order to break the deafening silence. I think for a moment about the evening-I just had my first real conversation with my mother in almost twelve years and I was finally able to put in words how I feel. I think about how hard the past few years have been. I think about how tired I am.

I text a friend-I know he’ll still be awake even though it’s 11pm on a Monday night. Not only will he be awake, he will respond and he’ll offer to talk even though he knows I will politely decline. I think about how lucky I am to have people in my life who have kept me from going under. I am so thankful that You have let me into your life, and so amazed that someone like you would feel strength from someone like me. Though I have not properly thanked you, You have held up my hope when it has tried to hard to sink. I will be here, floating for you, when you return.

Happy Birthday. Love, The Universe.

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I was out for a run and missed her call. She left a voicemail. The first one in twelve years. Happy Birthday, she said. I found the #courage to call her back on my way home. I was already physically lost, so why not? As I rounded the corner of an unknown block, I stumbled upon a tree with notes tied to it (from The Universe?).

My birthday was on the 5th. Hers was on the 13th. I called her to wish her a happy birthday and I was secretly relieved that she didn’t answer. I was in Palm Springs at the time and wrapping up a long work day. It made me sad to hear her voicemail message. “Tallulah, Malicent, Pork Chop, and I are off galavanting…” it started. Tallulah was my mother’s golden retriever and has been dead for almost four years. Nothing has changed. Everything has changed.

I don’t remember what my mother looks like anymore. Sometimes I close my eyes and try to remember, but I can’t see her face anywhere I try to place it. I don’t look anything like her, so when I look in the mirror, I am not nostalgic when I see her eyes staring back at me. I look so much like my father it’s like God forgot to sprinkles her DNA into my genes when he made me. I still think of her often, but I think of her the way you think of people when they go to heaven. Sometimes you forget what the smell like or how they sound. I’ve forgotten all cues about her, and I’m hungry for them.

I called her tonight. I said I would last week and I didn’t because I am a coward. Tonight, I mustered up the bits of courage I could find, the way a baby bird makes a meal out of crumbs of bread-it wasn’t enough or sustainable, but it had to do. I didn’t know what to expect. I never have with her; that’s something I crave. Something I have always craved. If you are in my life, I keep you around because you are stable and predictable and consistent in a way that makes me feel safe, makes me feel secure, makes me feel like I can count on you and that you will be there for me. It’s a big responsibility, I know, but I will give you whatever you need and whatever I can provide to make you happy in return. As I get older, I’ve learned not to give so much that I become exhausted and resentful, but it might happen, so be gentle with me when I mistakes and I will try to be gentle with you. For as much courage and strength you think I have, I am equally (if not more) fragile and scared.

We yelled. I cried. I got angry. I got scared. I got impatient. I did not get unkind. I did not lash out. I did not try to punish her. I have done all of those things in the past, so I am proud of myself for giving up part of my past and retiring the old weapons I thought served me so well that really only harmed me.

Sometimes I just feel like a moment is about to happen. I am almost impossible to surprise because I am constantly taking in my surroundings and reading between the lines. A sixth sense of sorts. I get out a pen and paper when I feel like something is going to happen that I’m going to want to write down; I take my camera out when I feel like I’m going to want to capture a moment on film. I’ve never had the urge to record audio until tonight.

Do you know what it’s like to have your mother tell you she loves you after not speaking for 12 years?

I do. And I grabbed the audio. I’m torn about sharing it, but it exists. And it’s hard to listen to, but it’s there. The moment captured, a snippet in time that’s now mine.

California: Thank You and See You Soon

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Karen Nicole Costa

Happiness is being on a beach with the sun on your shoulders and the breeze in your hair


California, how do I begin to thank you? I needed to escape Boston in a desperate kind of way-the grey, rain, and cold was too much for me. I needed vitamin D, the breeze in my hair, and a change of scenery. The best part of traveling is that you can be whoever you want, because nobody knows who you really are. It’s a chance to start over, even if only for a short while, so I pretended to be a happy girl from Boston scouting out neighborhoods to move to when the time is right. I fit right in to Santa Monica-the vibe and the people were my speed and I apparently look like a local; tourists asked me for directions. Little did they know that I was a tourist, too. “You look like you’re from here,” an older woman said. I dog-eared the compliment.

Being out here was not only an escape, but a great way to get over B. While the relationship had been over long before it ended, I’d been performing CPR on it for months, hoping with every chest compression that I could bring it back to life. Every breath I forced into its chest was air I was losing. I was finally able to catch my breath in California. In a strange way, I guess I could thank him for doing what he did; I was ready to move to New Jersey to be with him and now I can leave-no more feeling torn between two dreams-being with someone I love and being somewhere I love. Thanks. Not for breaking my heart, but for setting me free.

People talk to each other here and make eye contact. I felt rude walking around with headphones on, so I didn’t. I felt safe here. Knowing that a place like this exists gives me hope, a feeling so foreign to me that I want to both hold it as close to my heart as possible and treat it like I’m nervously taking a piping hot lasagna with cheese and sauce bubbling over the sides out of the oven with dollar store pot holders. I’ve never had so many strangers chat me up before.

“I love your shoes”
“I love your tattoos”
“I love that book you’re reading”
“You look so cute in your sunglasses”
“You look really pretty today”

A place like this exists?

My experience with the men (though brief and not at all involved) in California was great-they were polite, chivalrous, and direct. If they think you’re cute, they’re going to ask for your number and ask you out to dinner. This is not the Missed Connections crowd. I don’t know if it’s because LA is such a competitive culture or if that’s just the way it is in California, but I’ll take it.

I made some great contacts here and found places that feel like home to me, which is rare. I don’t attach myself to people, places, or things. I’m noun-aphobic, if you will, but no matter how hard I try, I’m going to miss California. When I dropped off my rental car, I took one last stroll down Abbot Kinney, passed through the beach, and onto Main Street in Santa Monica with a heaviness in my heart the whole time. Even now, I feel homesick for it, the way I did when I went to sleepaway camp for the first time. I remember the first night vividly. I was in my bed and I cried myself to sleep, longing for the smell of home and my own bed. As an adult, I’ve uprooted and moved enough times to be calloused-places are just places, things are just things. The only thing I ever take with me are friends and memories. I never leave those behind. This time feels different. My suitcase is packed and I’ve checked-in for my flight. In less than 24 hours, I’ll be landing in Boston, leaving behind the only place that’s ever felt like home to my heart.

See you soon.

A Birthday I Never Thought I’d See

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It’s my 29th birthday today. It’s my birthday right now on the East Coast. Wow. I am really happy to be here.

A few months ago, I didn’t plan on seeing this day. I was in the deepest, darkest place in my head and my heart and I couldn’t escape. It felt like my personality was an ice cube melting in a warm can of soda. I’ve always had a gravity to me, and the knowledge that my happiness is different (less) than other people’s happiness, but this was worse than anything I’d experienced thus far. I was drowning. There was an anchor of sadness attached to me, dragging me under water no matter how hard I tried to swim.

I pushed everyone away and locked myself in my apartment and inside my head. I stopped returning texts, phone calls,emails and I swore up and down that I was fine, but I could barely get out of bed. I put on a brave face and went to work; work has been one of the only things in life I’ve been able to count on and something that makes up part of my identity.On the weekends I had a hard time getting out of bed and showering. If I accomplished the shower, I probably didn’t have any energy left over to do anything else.

“I’m so tired. I just want to sleep”

I just wanted to close my eyes and escape. I hid the depth of my sadness from everyone, ashamed that I couldn’t pull myself together and too proud to ask for help. I’ve overcome so many things in my life. I couldn’t fathom that this was an exception to the rule, but things got out of hand in January. The sadness was unmanageable. The anchors were trying to take me away. One night, I found myself writing goodbye letters to my friends and family and thinking about my exit plan. I was planning the goodbye posts on my digital properties and setting them up to go live after I would already be gone. Dead. That night changed my life. I made an appointment with my doctor the next day. I got about five words in before I started crying. He put his arm around me.

“Everything is going to be okay,” he said.

He asked me how long I’d been feeling this way. Then he asked why I waited so long to get help. If I had cancer, I wouldn’t be ashamed to get chemotherapy. In fact, I’d probably be racing other patients down the hospital hallways to try to get there first. I don’t know why I let myself deal with depression for so long. There is nothing shameful about my faulty neurobiology. Soon after seeing my doctor, I started reaching out to friends and I had a very honest conversation with my father. Telling my story helped so much. Saying everything aloud made it very real, very scary, very sad. Writing it down and sharing it is beyond terrifying.

I feel so much better now and I am so incredibly happy that the anchors didn’t drag me under. I am so happy to still be alive. Because nautical terminology kept creeping into my vernacular throughout my struggle, I decided to get an anchor tattoed on me. I chose the design one night with my best friend, L. She has a great eye for things and the Sailor Jerry anchor struck a cord with me. Once I chose the design, getting the tattoo became a persistent, nagging thought in my mind. One Saturday morning, I tweeted about wanting to get a tattoo. A few minutes later, my friend M dm’d me a photo of a girl.

Art gallery opening? I asked.

I think I want to get that tattoo today.

Look at my last tweet.

We had never. Ever. Ever in the history of our friendship ever discussed tattoos, especially not about her wanting one. The Universe was saying “Go. Now.” I’m not usually a believer in cosmic connections. in fact, I have an aversion to putting labels of significance on things-too many previous false positive results, but I’ll make an exception for this instance. It was walk-in day at Chameleon tattoo shop in Harvard Square. I emailed the design to myself, hopped in my car, raced over to Lower Allston, parked my car and as soon as I got out of the car, M sent me a message.

I have an appointment soon.

I walked as fast to get to her, afraid that I would miss her appointment. When I got to the tattoo shop, she looked calm and poised, which is kind of her thing-she has a gracefulness and beauty about her that I aspire to. It was her first tattoo, and it felt really special to share that moment with her. We already have a special closeness, a secret handshake; we’ve both experienced an emotional pain that few people understand. I stood in the doorway and watched her get tattooed. A memory was made-a happy one, a moment to celebrate survival. No, a moment to celebrate living.

I went after M and got the anchor on my left side-so it would stay close to my heart. My tattoo artist, John, was wonderful-I was in a lot of pain and he kept me laughing. It healed comfortably and quickly, but it felt weird having it on only . I immediately wanted to balance out the left side with a complementary anchor on the right side-I hate asymmetrical things. Tattoo fever was surely in the air. My friend, G, mentioned wanting a tattoo, but wasn’t sure what. Throughout the week, we talked about things that have shaped who we are today.

If you think about something every day, why not have a visual representation of it?

I’m a big believer in getting tattoes with meaning behind them. You might be the only person who knows what your tattoo means. That’s okay. G started working on a design. We set a time to meet on Saturday and when the time came, I picked him up and we made our way to Harvard Square. We put our names down on the waiting list. They called us a couple of hours later for our appointments. When it was my turn, he sat next to the table and kept me company. The second anchor hurt more than the first and I tried to focus on anything but the pain. The room was silent except for Florence And The Machine playing on John’s iPod. Out of all the things I’ve been through, physical pain, while uncomfortable, is the most tolerable. Out of nowhere, John broke the silence.

You have a very intense silence about you.

If he only knew.

G rubbed my leg when he could tell I was really hurting-he understood what I was feeling and I didn’t have to say a word. It wasn’t surprising-despite the fact that we’re practically strangers (if you judged our friendship by its duration), but we finish each other’s sentences, run into each other randomly on the street, and frequently message each other at the same exact time. In those moments where I feel strangely connected to people and silently understood, I’m so incredibly grateful to still be here.

I know my struggle isn’t over-I’m not foolish, but now I know how to ask for help and I’m surrounded by the most beautiful, caring, understanding, and supportive people. I have more than I could have ever dreamed of. I feel so blessed to have more than I need and to have friends who are my compasses, my North Stars, my lighthouses, and my life preservers. I don’t feel like I’m lost at sea anymore. I feel like I’m the captain of my own ship. No matter how hard the anchors pull at me, I will not sink.

Happy birthday to me.

Courage

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The past few weeks have been hard-lots of stress and change. Luckily, I have amazing friends as a support system. One friend has been particularly supportive and we get each other in a really special way-we’ve been through some very similar-in-theme life events. When we talk, it feels like we have a secret handshake. It’s nice that some things are said without saying a word. She is a wonderful listener, sounding board, and overall amazing person. We were chatting one day- I was feeling incredibly stuck. She recommended finding a word that I wanted to define me right now; a focal point, a shift in my attention so that I was

1-working toward a goal

2- ruminating- it wasn’t serving me any purpose

I thought about what word I would want to define me that wasn’t already part of my identity. What word would I really like added to my emotional roster? What word would serve a purpose for me right now? I could have chosen a word like “balance” and I could have added that word to the list by going to lots of yoga and eating really balanced meals, but that didn’t sound appealing to me, and wasn’t a constructive way to repurpose my energy, anger, hurt, or stress. My boundaries had been pushed, so it was time to push some boundaries. I was holding on to a lot of hurt, disappointment, and anger. It had to go somewhere. If you let those things stay bottled up inside you it will start to eat away at you. Trust me.

The words “courageous” and “brave” kept popping into my head. I tried to shake them off because they sounded silly to me, but I lost my spark over the past few months. I was letting things happen to me rather than with me, and I was feeling really helpless.

I’m a word nerd and I wanted a literal definition.

cour·age

1. the quality of mind or spirit that enables a person to face difficulty, danger, pain, etc., without fear; bravery.
2. Obsolete . the heart as the source of emotion.
Bingo.
Now all I had to do was figure out how to be courageous. Easier said than done. I went about my usual routine, but kept Courage in the back of my mind. I’ve been running a lot lately. If running doesn’t heal you, nothing will. Whenever I’m going through a hard time, I have a need to run. My path is usually pretty tame. I hate hills and I like routine, so I typically go the same way over and over again, listening to the same playlist over and over again. Saturday night, I went for a run and decided to push myself much harder than my typical run. I decided to go up Summit Ave. For those of you who don’t live in Boston, Summit Ave is a beast of a hill in Brookline that is long and steep. At the top is a lookout point that has the best view of Boston. I didn’t run it-I’m not in that kind of shape yet, but I walked and made it. I felt really strong again for the first time in a long time and my heart felt a little lighter.

I started dating again. I hate dating-it’s awkward and uncomfortable and sometimes ( ok, most times), I would rather be at home in my pj’s watching a movie than out with a stranger having drinks, but I’ve been forcing myself to go out to meet new people. Never leave the house, never meet new people. Funny how that works. I had lunch with a friend last summer and he said that he goes out on a date every weekend. It allows him to pinpoint things he likes/dislikes and it gives him something to look forward to. Worst case scenario, it’s awkward, but there’s still pizza. I’m trying to get to that point-it’s going to take some time before I really get overjoyed at the thought of having a meal with a stranger, but I’m trying. Next week, my calendar is full of friends and dates every night. I’ve never done that before. I’m slightly terrified, but I’ve stopped allowing myself to back down. They all sound nice enough. Worst case scenario, I get to hang out at Flour and eat cookies one night and have dinner and drinks on Friday. If you never try, you’ll never fail, but you’ll also never succeed. It’s too easy to back down and forfeit the game by not playing.

My best friend, L, and I were talking one day. She is lucky enough to have an awesome boyfriend and they’ve been together for 8 years. She recognizes how fortunate she is. She’s been living vicariously through my dating life for the past year and half we’ve known each other. It’s so hard to be vulnerable to new people. You never know what’s going to happen. We’ve had some good laughs, and she’s dried some tears, too. After a date night that was “meh” at best, she said, “I really admire your ability to put yourself out there,” which was a great push to keep going no matter how scary it gets.

I made a huge mistake with B when we dated. I allowed our relationship to go public prematurely. I got caught up in the excitement and because my digital life is so public, people can easily read the tea leaves. After November, I stopped traveling and posts about “us” became few and far between. Out of the blue a few days ago, a Twitter friend sent me a DM.

“Hey girl, this may seem odd,but I wanted you to know I’ve been thinking of you since your breakup and wanted to share I’m proud of your strength.”

Amazing. I didn’t really think anyone really noticed. Hearing the words “I’m proud of your strength” was one of the nicest, most unexpected notes I’ve ever received.

The idea of courage even started to infiltrate my work. I had my review a couple of weeks ago and I didn’t rate myself very high in anything. My boss asked me, in his very thick French accent, “Why you are so rude to yourself?” He thought I was doing a way better job than I thought I was doing, especially in the realm of creativity and entrepreneurship, which was an area I rated myself the lowest. I wanted to see if I have any talent left, so I started writing and sending things to some marketing managers. Lo and behold, some of my work is on the website. I also asked to work on some special projects, which is totally not my style. I’m usually so afraid of rejection that I don’t ask at all. We’re still trying to figure out my involvement, but they didn’t say No.

My favorite future act of courage is crossing off a bucket list item- I’m giving myself surfing lessons for my birthday. I’ve always wanted to become a surfer chick and I love, love, love the ocean (California, are you ready for me one day?). I’ve been training a lot for it to build up more strength and I’m hoping that my ballet and yoga experience comes in handy, but I’m prepared to fall down and get up a lot. Fitting. I guess it really comes down to this- you have two options-you can let it overcome you or you can fight back. I refuse to sink.

The Importance of Face Time

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I am the blackberry addicted asshole who sits at dinner with their phone on the table. I sleep with it in my bed at night. I check it before I go to sleep at night and the second I open my eyes in the morning. And periodically throughout the night when I wake up. I struggle with insomnia and lately, nightmares, but that’s besides the point. I am always on my phone. I realize this need to be connected is a problem. It’s an escape route. If I have my phone, I have work emails and twitter and facebook and all sorts of other distractions so I don’t have to be present. Because so often, being present is uncomfortable for me. I had been having a lot of difficult conversations over the past few months and it’s so easy to just avoid everything and live your life using the blinking red light as the North Star that guides your attention.

I know other people like this. I have dated other people like this. And I hate them, passionately. We always hate things about other people that we hate about ourselves. Right? Two years ago, on my birthday, my then-boyfriend was in town. He promised that he would take the day off to be present with me. He proceeded to take conference calls all day while I sat around the house waiting to be important. When the work day was “done” he asked me what I wanted for dinner. He was a wonderful cook and going out to dinner was never quite as good as the food he cooked. It’s probably for the best that we broke up; I might be seven hundred pounds by now if we stayed together. Anyway, he had been on his blackberry for so long that the dinner I wanted couldn’t be made-I wanted lobster and by then all the seafood shops were closed. It was the worst birthday ever. Not because of the lobster, but because someone could not be present with me. He could not be with me in the same room and devote his attention to me for any extended period of time. That day stands out in my mind as the archetype of what it is to be completely disconnected from other humans and completely connected to one’s phone.

I caught up with a high school friend yesterday. We haven’t seen each other in years, but he’s the kind of friend I connect with so well that we pick up where we left off every time. He’s the kind of friend I rearrange my schedule for. Last time I saw him was in New York City for his going away party. He was moving to Vancouver and I couldn’t not say goodbye even though I had several other plans that night. I knew I’d see him again-he’s led a gypsy life that puts mine to shame. He has so few things that he could pick up and move tomorrow. Or in fifteen minutes.

He’s now getting his MBA and living in Boston. While I haven’t taken the opportunity to spend time with him, my schedule is now a lot more free. I sent him a message to see if he wanted to get together. Of course he said yes. He’s an easy-going, up-for-anything kind of guy who is laid back, but still put together. We decided on brunch yesterday. “Why don’t you come over. I’ll cooked you breakfast.” When a man offers to make you breakfast, you say yes. So I did. And I picked up some pastries from Athan’s Bakery (if you live in Boston and haven’t been, GO!) and made my way over. He lives in what he describes as a “hippy-dippy Jew house,” which is not far from the truth. It is.

As I walked up the stairs, I felt a strange sense of calm. I was in the presence of someone who’s known me for a long time, which is comforting on its own. And I was in the presence of people who have a very strong respect, appreciation, and practice of their faith and spirituality. I found it quite charming. We congregated in the kitchen with his roommates, the fellow hippy-dippy Jews and they were kind, friendly, and welcoming. He took my coat and I set my purse down. We ate breakfast, caught up on life-talked about friends, family, relationships (well, I obsessed over how I am going to die alone; he reminded me that I am a crazy neurotic woman and that I just need to date Jewish guys). The conversation was easy.

After breakfast, we headed upstairs to an amazing room full of pillows and couches and sunlight and space. It is a room so peaceful, I immediately wished I was wearing yoga pants so we could continue the conversation in downward facing dog. We easily talked for an hour without missing a beat. We talked a lot about work-what he wants to do after his MBA and I talked about my constant battle between profit and non-profit marketing, how I wish what I did meant something to the world, and how strange it is to be so digitally connected. The topic of availability came up. I’m a global manager, so my hours are strange. I wake up at 5:30, check/answer emails, head out for a run, get home, answer more emails, hop in the shower, answer emails while doing my makeup, and then jump in the car. I work a full day, head home, and continue to answer emails until they come in-usually until around 10:30 when I go to bed. We talked about the cell phone asshole syndrome and how I struggle with breaking away. Oftentimes being away from my phone means dealing with a headache later on, so I’d rather catch it sooner or later. “That’s a lot of responsibility and a really long work day,” he said.

I remembered him saying that he had a meeting to attend at 12:30. Mid conversation, my inner body clock reminded me of this. I have a really strong internal clock. I feel time.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Don’t you have your phone?”

“No, I left it in my purse.”

He looked surprised. “Why?” he asked. “Because I wanted to spend face time with you.”

And it was the truth.