We have all seen them.

(Except maybe we do not see them. Maybe what they are doing is so normal that none of us even notices any more.)

In a bank, sitting opposite each other on the soft furnishings, scrolling, waiting to be called.

Waiting in a hospital, to be seen.

To be seen.

In a cafe, or out for a meal, perhaps a special one. Or maybe just brunch. The photos of their food posted to feeds, the other kind, before a knife is lifted in hunger, all without eye contact or even speech.

A kind of glue over their eyes. If we knew better we would name it the kind of rapt attention we normally reserve for new babies or lovers.

Glued. Awed. Fixated.

Pixilated.

This is not a criticism. This is not judgement. For I am just just as guilty. I am one half of that couple.

The half that is glued, not talking, not looking around, not yet eating, not in the moment, elsewhere, connected but distant, lost in wonder for the thing in my hand, my fingers running silently and very fast.