She had started her own account. Her handle was @Naurene48. Her profile was blank, just an anonymous, disembodied head, belonging to a man. Only sometimes did she show up on my feed, not often enough for me to worry about her presence there. “I’m out doing other things,” I imagined her saying. “Real things,” real life. Sorting library books and issuing cards. Sipping cold decaf coffee from the special Starbucks mug I’d given her for Christmas. Cleaning the car. Depositing paychecks at the bank in person, still distrusting of the mobile app; “real things.”
