Texting 1,2,3

Tex­ting 1,2,3
The num­ber 7 but­ton on my phone hadn’t been work­ing prop­erly since I returned from Tioman. I had noticed ear­lier that there had been fine grains of sand embed­ded in the crevices on the phone’s plas­tic shell. On Sat­ur­day night, I slid the shell off with a screw­driver and won­dered how almost a thim­ble full of fine grain Tioman sand had got­ten into the innards of the phone. (It was in the Ziploc all the time, and the only time it ever came close to peril was when our kayak upended on the beach).

I took a spare tooth­brush and metic­u­lously and gen­tly cleaned the con­tact points in the phone, put it back together, and being real proud of myself, launched into a long SMS con­ver­sa­tion with you while you ate your din­ner and watched your VCD. The joy of hav­ing lib­er­ated the num­ber 7 but­ton made me want to make many words in the mes­sages with the let­ters P, Q, R and S. I was so happy I would’ve SMSd you con­tin­u­ously even if you didn’t reply.