Don’t Follow Me

“There’s something intimidating about all this social media stuff,” Mark said over a cup of coffee. “For example, let’s take Twitter. I don’t want to be followed. Who wants to be followed?”

“The younger generation, they love that stuff,” Leslie said as she sipped her double-decaf espresso with a hairline’s worth of foam on top.

“But why?” Mark said.

“It connects them to their friends and family,” she said.

“What’s wrong with the phone or a letter?” Mark said as he sipped his coffee. His coffee was the real kind – strong and black in a cup. No whipped cream. No double shot anything. No flavoring. Just coffee in a real cup.

“Too time consuming. These kids have been raised on instant gratification – from a mother’s breast to tweeting. That’s why these platforms are so popular. There’s no work involved,” Leslie said. She was sporting a miniscule foam mustache on her upper lip. She looked like a milk commercial.

“Too ridiculous for me. I wouldn’t know how to use them anyway,” Mark said.

“Don’t you want to stay connected to me?” Leslie said with a gleam in her eye.

“I thought we were. Twenty years ago when I said, ‘I do.'”

“But you’ve been a bit distant lately,” Leslie said.

“I have?”

“Yes. You’re in your own world. Don’t know what you’re thinking. Makes me nervous.”

“Don’t be. I’m only thinking of you,” Mark said finishing his coffee and putting his cup back on the saucer with a real clink.

They both got up and walked out of the coffee shop.

Suddenly Mark’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and opened it. “Let’s talk about me then,” the text message said.

Calvin says, “All this fuss about connecting. That’s what hounds have been doing for years. It’s called packs. We run and bay and get all sweaty together.”

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