“You have a new memory.” What did that even mean? That he hadn’t had it before? Also, the screen wasn’t showing him a memory, only a stupid selfie. More of that imprecision, he thought, more of that turning words into more or less than they actually were—manicures into “self-care,” meat into “protein.” A photo wasn’t a memory. A photo was a photo. The memories Artie had of that day weren’t at that angle, the light was different. They might end up reduced to that angle and that light, though, if he looked at the photo long enough.
