I arrived the day before you at this sort of bed and breakfast retreat. You were having some trouble because of the unexpected weather. The Central Valley isn’t used to heavy snowfall. And I waited in what would be our room watching flurries from the window. Sad because I had to wait for you and because I was so warm and toasty when I knew you were still out fighting crowds of sneezing people and cold wind. But then word came; you were down in the lobby. People wanted me to know so I could help you with your luggage. Maybe they just wanted me to know period. And you looked so pretty in your sweater. We paused for a quick hug. I asked what other bags you had and you said, “Cuneiform.” I knew this to mean your white boxes with the scratchy, decorative-lettering. You squealed with glee to be alone with me in the warmth of our room.
Mei Mei decided to get a job in the city. She didn’t really know what the city was. Her parents had never taken her there. But she’d seen things. She’d heard things. She knew that they dressed differently. Spoke a little differently. But most of all, she knew that that’s where all the art was. And the technology. Which, after considering it a bit, she concluded that art and technology kind of went hand in hand anyway. But either way. It was where she wanted to be. Mei Mei was a teenager. She loved the internet. Probably a little too much. At least that’s what her parents would say. And she would sometimes think that they probably regretted buying her that laptop. That it made her disconnected, they said. That one day they would come home and find her hands pressed up against the screen (from the inside) and that she’d be screaming to get out and that they’d have to call a professional to release her from this apparent cyberspacial trapdoor that she’d somehow slipped into, they sai...