on critical thinking, convenience, and the question of whether i am becoming my grandfather.
The queue moves and the man in front of you doesn’t. He’s on his phone, three people back from the counter, though that’s not quite right either. The phone isn’t something he reaches for. It runs ahead of him, finds the gap before it arrives, fills it before he can feel it opening. The proficiency is real, honed to something close to art, not skill at using the thing, skill at being driven by it. There’s no moment where he notices the silence and chooses the screen over it. The screen gets there first. He stands no chance. It’s not in his hand so much as his hand is in it.