The face across the table, lit by nothing

Your partner's telling you about a meeting. The phone's in the hall, where it went before you sat down, and it's lit up out there for all you know. Somebody said something and somebody else reacted and the point is coming, and you can see it coming on their face, and they can see you seeing it. The point lands. It's a better story than you expected, because it's the whole one.

At the park, your daughter says "watch this", and you're watching, and she does the thing, and she doesn't ask if you saw, because she saw you seeing. Across the cafe table, your friend says the thing about their marriage, and the phone doesn't buzz on the wood because it's in your bag on the floor, and they don't say "anyway", and the next hour is one you'll both remember.

None of this took effort in the moment. The effort was in the hall, and it was the effort of putting a phone down. Everything after was just a conversation, the kind people had for a very long time before there was anything to glance at, and the kind they can still have, whenever the thing that interrupts it is somewhere else.

One action, tonight. Before the next meal, put the phone where you'd have to stand up to reach it. Then sit down and look up.