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Our old neighbor, Eleanor, was talking about how lonely she gets when she isn’t traveling. She had a long and prosperous marriage to Don, who died of cancer some years ago. Eleanor was thinking about a man we had known—almost forever—Mr. Broward from church, the father of fine, well-built sons and married to Ginny who smiled so warmly. He is alone now, too. And Eleanor was saying that she and Don had been such good friends with the Browards back when, and it was a shame the two who were left couldn’t pick up the phone and meet at Perkins to reminisce. She was shaking her head, then stopped and she said, in the past things were different, and she herself had said things about people in town who had done just that, looking down at her cup and smoothing her palms on the table top, and now she was stuck.
—m. sunday 2015
next: automatons, simulacra, me and my selfie, definitions, the uncanny valley, symmetries; why weave?