Look at me, doing another writing exercise so soon. I wonder how long this will last.
Battery
A man walks down the street, phone in hand. He walks five steps, then checks his phone. He walks seven steps, then checks his phone. He walks fifteen steps, the phrase "do not check the phone" on repeat in his head, before he can't take it anymore and checks the small, shining screen. His hopes and dreams lie in that seemingly innocuous device. One beep, one bar of that catchy song, could determine his future.
He continues walking, his wrist flicking and head tilting like some kind of twitchy dance, a dance that everyone around him knows and understands and mocks anyway. Look at that, they say. That piece of plastic and metal is like an extra appendage. I bet he couldn't put it down if you paid him. These people ignore the irony of their own bits of plastic and metal residing in purses and jeans pockets, accessible in a second if necessary.
The man continues his walk, heart pounding and hands sweating. He checks the phone once again, then transfers it to the other hnad. He walks. Tells himself he won't check the phone again. But he does.
The phone buzzes in his hand. That catchy tune starts up and the man's heart pounds nearly out of his chest. He fumbles the phone, finally managing to hit the correct button. He puts the phone to his ear, calls out a hello, when the battery dies.
