I wrote this story and read it to my writing group the other day. They laughed, so I thought I would share it with you. See the end of the post for the writing prompt that got me going.

Phantom Love

Rhythmic buzzing in my right thigh rouses me from a restless sleep. Ugh. Two a.m.? Three? Not again. I laid my sweaty hand on the that patch of skin where, most of the time, my phone nestles deep and safe in my pocket. Second night of this “digital detox” getaway that Noelle insisted on, and I’ve gotten only a few hours of sleep so far. The blackout curtains mean I can’t clearly see the silhouetted curve of her hip beside me, but I sense her closeness. She sleeps on her side facing me, and she’s deep into an REM phase—rapid breathing suggests she’s enveloped by good dreams. I feel puffy exhalations puh, puh, puh as she sleeps the sleep of the virtuous. Sucked into the vortex, from valerian tea to silk eye masks, from yoga on the beach to vegan dinners at community tables, Noelle is loving this. 

Me, not so much. Soon after we arrived here and handed our cellphones to the gatekeeper to lock away, my thigh started buzzing.  

This nightmare started at dinner two weeks ago, when I received an unexpected ultimatum. Noelle and I sat at the table, and I did what I always do. I ate dinner with my cell phone propped against the pepper grinder and skimmed through multiple texts flowing in from my business partner,. To get my attention, Noelle took her spoon and started to tap her wine glass. Ting ting ting. I ignored her and read on, chewing my food. Ting ting ting. I glanced at her and smiled then returned to the urgent texts—the conference we were working on was fucking up: a caterer pulled out and the AV guy had Covid. I’m an event planner, so I have to be plugged in 24/7.

Noelle’s a playful woman, and I thought she was just having fun with the glass tapping. Ting ting ting. Yes, I get it, like a wedding. You want to make a speech. Cute. But the third time she did it, I felt irritation bristle over my scalp like a hot caterpillar. I turned my face toward hers.  What are you doing, Noelle? I kept my voice level, calm. Vowed not to lose my temper. In my peripheral vision I saw texts cascading down the screen and it was all I could do not to grab the device. 

James, you are on that cell phone all of the fucking time. I. Can’t. Stand. It. Anymore. (Big, dumb, serious pauses between words designed to show she means business.)  Either you go on a digital detox with me—three days no phone, no devices at all—or I’m moving out. 

What? This coming from my gentle girlfriend who never swears. Her unprecedented use of “fucking” shocked me. That ultimatum was for sure scripted by her girlfriends. I could just see them (what are their names? Annika? Angela? All A names) hovering around her, coaching her on how to language the confrontation with the neglectful boyfriend. 

Put on the spot like that, I agreed under duress. So last week, I spent hours I didn’t have rescheduling meetings and getting Wyatt, my partner, up to speed on the stuff I was responsible for. The tide of resentment toward Noelle was rising (red flag—why don’t I ever pay attention to these?). The day before the trip, Noelle described how great it would be—the pristine lake, the waterfall, the healthy meals, the fellow detoxers. It will bring us closer than ever, she beamed. But I knew the truth: this experience was going to be brutal. This. Was. Going. To. Be. Brutal. 

So, 39 hours into a 72-hour torture session, and my withdrawal was bad. The tactile hallucinations—buzzing in my thigh—were frequent. But worse than phantom vibration syndrome was the sensation that I was an amputee. When my phone’s in my pocket, I can connect with people in the flesh and have pleasant conversations. I can be social, I can hang out, do fun activities. As long as it’s there, snug against my thigh, and I know I can check it soon, I’m okay. 

On the first day, we went on a “mindfulness hike,” but without my iPhone to take a picture of the waterfall and share on my feeds, I was aching. The sweet weight of it in my pocket, the familiar warmth of it in my hand. I can picture the wallpaper on my home screen—the swirling multi-colours of the new Gangnam Apple logo. Beautiful, colourful app icons arranged neatly across the screen. Blue folders. Apple green text boxes filled with words, information, emojis: world at my fingertips. My hands want to cradle the smooth oblong, touch its face to make everything come alive, swipe and swipe and swipe again.

I scrabbled around in the bedside table drawer for the flashlight they provided for night trips to the bathroom. With blackout curtains cloaking the windows and no devices emitting blue light, it was impossible to see a thing in there. I angled the light down so as not to wake Noelle and once in the cedar-walled bathroom, I found my overnight bag and my Ambien. I can get through this, I kept chanting to myself. To save my relationship, I can get through this. 

But when Noelle shook my shoulder the next morning, trying to rouse me with an oat-milk latte so we could go down to do yoga on the beach, I realized my intention had dissolved during the night, washed away by the rising tide of resentment. No, I said, pulling away. No, go away, I need more sleep. The back of my head felt the chill from her arctic green eyes. I can’t do it, Noelle. Sorry, I mumbled into the pillow. When I wake up, I’m getting my phone from the front desk and taking an Uber home. 

A long pause, and then I hear the door close with a bang as I descend into sleep again. 

Two hours later, showered and caffeinated (I had tucked a Red Bull into my overnight bag), I told the woman at the desk I was leaving early. She wasn’t surprised. As she located my phone in the locker, tagged with my name and room number, she told me I should try again another time. I smiled agreeably, but was thinking yeah right, snowball’s chance in hell.

I turned on my phone. Relief imploded my chest as the Apple logo emerged from a black screen. I sat in the back of the Uber, holding my phone and letting the waterfall of new messages tumble by. It was a thirty minute drive (not cheap but well worth it) back to my place, so I had plenty of time to enjoy catching up on Instagram, Facebook, TikTok, X, Reddit, Telegram, Discord, email, messages, voicemails, and more. Why feel ashamed for loving this? 

And then I started to think about Noelle and how ill-matched we were. Once she’s moved her stuff out of my place, I’ll reinvigorate my Tinder profile, but first I’ll edit it. Some people say, must love dogs or cats or whatever, but I’ll say, must love her smartphone. Why not? I see lots of lovely faces everywhere lit by screenglow. One of those women is for me. Why can’t I be with somebody truly compatible? We’ll eat dinner with our phones propped before us. Screw the pepper and salt grinders—I’ll buy us matching smartphone stands. We’ll look up at each other occasionally and smile knowingly. Luddite Noelle made me keep my phone out of the bedroom, but my new girlfriend and I, we’ll keep our phones close by us on our bedside tables, charging, ready if we need them. 

The buttery leather upholstery of the Tesla held me gently in its embrace. My phone was warm in my hands. Soon I would switch it to vibrate and slide it into my right pants pocket. Now that people knew I was back in the world, it wouldn’t be long before I’d feel that comforting buzz against my thigh. I smiled in anticipation. 

From Poets & Writers “The Time is Now” writing prompts. https://www.pw.org/writing-prompts/