Computer in my lap, eyes fixed on the top right corner of the screen. Your name appears and starts to throb. My ribs jab my spleen. It must mean something that we’re online at the same time, like two people in different cities both staring up at the moon.
Message read on Sunday at 9:47pm, two and a half days ago.
I put my phone on silent mode in the movie theater. Can you imagine if you messaged me and it made a loud sound and everyone around glared at me? Yeah, silent mode, just to make sure. Just in case. In case you message me. We’d laugh about it later when we were together and I’d feign embarrassment to make you think I was a bit annoyed, not at all like receiving your message was the best part of my day.
Nothing yet. I comfort myself by thinking something terrible must have happened to you. Maybe your hands got chopped off so you can’t type.

Curated by Christina Gigliotti

Courtesy of the artists and Galerie Ferdinanda Baumanna
Photocredit Michal Ureš