They call it a conversation, but every syllable is typed out on a keyboard. Where’s the warmth in that? Pause. Wait for response. Still waiting. She has very slow fingers. At last. Yes, we can meet. The bistro. Where voices bubble more lively than champagne. And we’ve the spontaneity of words, facial expressions and even touching hands across the table as we sip nectar from a bottle of white wine. And our phones remain silent, as our soft voices intertwine with a background of many others. Ping. Blast! WhatsApp. Message from wife. Where am I? I type back a lie.