Two Numbers on the Counter

February twentieth. At some point around eight-thirty I lined both phones up on the kitchen counter, the old one and the new one, and just looked at them for a minute before I touched either one. I don't know why I do that. It's a phone. It does not require a moment of silence.

I'd been putting off the switch for longer than I want to admit. The old one was fine. The battery wasn't fine, but the phone was fine, and there's something about a working thing you've carried everywhere for two and a half years that makes you feel mildly disloyal when you slide a new SIM card in. I transferred the contacts. I redownloaded the apps. I spent forty minutes redoing my music library because the migration scrambled the playlists, and I told myself this was necessary and not just a reason to keep touching the new screen.

the old one and the new one, side by side

At some point while I was doing this, I thought about the number thing, the supervisor rate I finally wrote down a few weeks ago, right next to the 2011 paper number. I don't know why migrating a phone reminded me of that. Maybe because it's the same motion: you write the new number beside the old one, and you look at both of them, and the difference is smaller than you expected, and you're neither relieved nor disappointed, just, more accurate. Two things on the counter. One older than the other. Both real.

settled. finally.

The new phone is faster. The camera is noticeably better, which I care about more than I probably should, given the amount of time I spend photographing the windowsill in late-afternoon light. Gerald looked great in the test shot. The collapsed bowl looked great. I'm choosing to take this as a sign.