Wish You Were Here
A chandelier encased his phone in light, outlining his silhouette. He snapped a picture. Noodles glistened like wet plastic. Nearby, a baby screamed for their bottle. Somewhere, a ring of plastic fastened around a baby turtle’s neck.
“Can't wait to try this 🍝,” he texted her, attaching the image. Across from him, she opened it and smiled.
“I wish I could try some 😊,” she sent, before going back to her newsfeed.
Somewhere, a hurricane took a dog for a flight. She watched comfortably, before scrolling to a video about female circumcision. A plate of salmon in front of her began accumulating bacteria. A father asked for another beer. She ran a hand through her hair, tugging it slightly. Scrolling on, she realized she forgot to wash it. The turtle grew into the ring, like a noose.
“Have you heard about the herpes outbreaks among infants in NYC?” he texted.
“No, that's horrible,” she messaged.
He was halfway done with his noodles when he noticed the sauce in his lap. Somewhere, a body woke with no kidneys. Her coffee was getting cold. A few tables down, a man complained his steak was overdone. Setting his fork down, he cleaned himself up blindly and continued to read. The baby stopped screaming. The plastic constricted.
“Did you know the Chinese government is torturing Muslims?” he texted.
“Ours probably is too,” she replied.
Somewhere, a building was being bombed. She raised her drink to her lips, and through the glass, watched it on the wall-mounted television behind him. Cheers erupted from the bar. The bartender was serving drinks to underage girls. Her stomach turned. She looked back down and, sticking her fork into the salmon, continued watching a hair styling tutorial. The turtle’s neck swelled.
“Do you know anything about Haiti?” he texted.
“No, who's that?” she replied.
“I guess people are saying they're going through a silent holocaust,” he texted.
“Would you like another drink?” the waiter asked. He nodded.
“That's terrible, I feel bad for her,” she replied.
A broken sea of colors cascaded down her phone as she scrolled. Somewhere, someone was being sold into modern slavery. Her coffee got colder. A boisterous boy was begging for dessert. She stopped on clean text and read. He was reading about the origins of fart humor as a terrified young girl was casually brushed past him. Seeing his beard, she shriveled back into herself. Still, the turtle struggled.
“Have you heard of Nancy Schaefer?” she texted him.
“No, apparently fart humor dates all the way back to Sumeria💩,” he replied.
“She was a senator who accused CPS and foster care systems of profiting off children. Her and her husband were found dead less than two years after it went public,” she texted.
“Wow, that's crazy,” he replied, finally.
“Yeah, how was your 🍝?” she messaged.
“Good. Have you heard of North Fox Island?” he texted. She scratched her thigh. His knee itched.
“No,” she texted.
Somewhere in the Congo, a child was mining cobalt. Her phone chimed, warning her it was 20% alive. Someone bumped his elbow while he was drinking, splashing liquor on his phone. He panicked for his napkin. She watched a video of her niece singing. The turtle weighed heavier.
“Seems a lot like Epstein’s island,” he texted her.
“Would you like dessert?” the waiter asked.
He pointed at a large shake that had been staring at him from a placard inches from his plate.
“Wow, it's not the only one 🫥. High Island and Beaver Island have creepy, dark histories too,” she texted him back.
“I’m gonna pee my friggin pants!” a young boy hollered, running for the bathroom.
“Ever hear of the Oakland County Child Killer? Still unsolved,” he messaged. She got distracted by the waiter and forgot to reply.
A shake lay between them with two straws. Somewhere in India, a farmer hang from a tree. They guzzled it, faces aglow. Alone—it emptied. A video of a baby making a mess played on her phone. Her glass bled tears. The turtle grew hungry.
“I guess the Russians are torturing Ukrainians," he texted. She watched a cat scratched a ball of yarn in a cradle. The restaurant staff were trading pills. She started sweating.
“Doesn't surprise me,” she replied.
“Any idea when you two will be done?” the babysitter texted. Sighing, she continued watching the cat in the cradle. Her stomach twisted.
“And some organization is saying China, Syria, the Congo, Yemen, and Sudan are all at risk of mass atrocities,” he messaged, eyes bulging bright. A flood of heat suddenly enveloped her. A girl at the bar scooted away from an inching man. Her vision blurred.
“It's more than just them🤐,” she texted. Her dinner grew cold, alone. Shaking, she took a drink of water.
Somewhere, a child was hungry. He took a drink and noticed the bill on the table and sighed. The boy never left the bathroom. Still reading, he set a rectangular piece of plastic on it. She watched a video of paint dry. The restaurant grew quiet. The waiter grabbed his card. The turtle grew tired.
“Are you still eating?” she texted.
“I’ll be done after my 🍸 have you heard of baby factories?” he messaged.
“No, wtf?” she replied, the paint dried satisfactorily. She rotated her gaze to the television behind him. It broadcasted a local baseball game.
“Yeah, I guess people are trafficking kids from birth like crazy, exploiting their mothers in the process,” he texted. His phone chimed, letting him know Insane Clown Posse announced an upcoming tour.
“That's sick,” she replied, looking back at the television.
Rubbing her ring, she watched a young boy walk up to bat. A man was urging a young girl into a car outside. The boy landed a home run. The audience cheered. Somewhere, a son stabbed his father. A sudden restlessness came to life in his legs. He choked down the rest of his drink. The boy never left the bathroom. Still feeling somewhat queasy, she sipped some water. The turtle sank.
“Ready when you are. I had a great time tonight,” he texted.
“Me too,” she replied.
Somewhere, someone was buying another human being. Satisfied, the couple stood, faces still alight, and walked out. Her coffee was full and very cold. The boy never left the bathroom. Outside, she noticed a car speed through a red light. Her phone was reduced to its final percent. The turtle died.
“Wish you were here,” she texted beside him.
“Me too,” he replied.
Dylan Harrington plays a wine-red Gretsch Catalina six-piece set: Gibraltar hardware (including the double-pedal), Meinl crashes and splashes, a Paiste bell, a dream china, and a B8 ride and hi-hats, naturally. Aquarian drumheads on the batter side; Evans on the resonant. He prefers Vic Firth 5B drumsticks.