In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Shoulda Woulda Coulda.” Tell us about something you know you should do . . . but don’t.
In the dark, it flashes. I look up. The clock screams, “It’s midnight. You should be sleeping.”
I look at my smartphone, charging on my bedside table. It begs for my attention. It’s a needy beast, constantly interrupting me. It has no sense of manners. It pays no attention to the people I’m speaking to at the moment, or in this case, the fact that I’m sleeping.
“Hey, you!” The light flashes its visual Morse code.
“Look at me!”
I groan and check.
“Hey! It’s Esme’s birthday today, don’t you know?” the phone says. It’s perky and bright.
I set it to vibrate, turn it face down and roll over. I can almost hear its muffled plea for interaction.
My phone has no concept of time.
I make a mental note to wish Esme a happy birthday in the morning.
And another mental note to smash my phone.