I’m sitting in the middle of the Apple store, shattered phone in one hand, frothy latte in the other, explaining what’s happened to my iPhone when I feel a peculiar moisture on my cheek. I look up, expecting to see a broken pipe dripping from the ceiling. But there is nothing. I look expectantly at the Genius Bar employee surveying my phone. He looks uncomfortable. Another drop of water rolls down my face. As I go to wipe it away, still confused about where this water is coming from, several more drops fall down my cheek. It takes me another second to realize what’s happening. I’m crying.
We both sit there in silence, avoiding each other’s stare, neither of us quite sure what to do. I’m embarrassed and cover my face with my hand. His head is bowed; his calloused hands cradle my damaged phone. I take a deep breath and attempt to regain my composure. Once I’m ready, I return my eyes to his. I smile.
I tell him I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s a lie. I tell him it’s nothing, probably just allergies. Also a lie. I tell him I’m fine. Another lie.
He nods, accepting my lies and pretending to believe them. He attempts to comfort me, complimenting my rose gold phone case. He says he wants to get his sister one just like it, which makes me laugh but not for the reasons he intended. He works quickly to get me out of there, presumably fearing another emotional grenade may detonate, this time leaving an even bigger disaster zone.
As I prepare to leave, he assures me they will fix my phone as soon as possible. I notice how gently his burly hands carry my broken phone. I thank him. He nods. I go.
When I get to the safety of my car, I expect the dam to break. I anticipate more tears and a small flood to overwhelm me. But once inside this large, metallic container, my emotions evaporate. Inside my car, I’m safe to construct my own imagined reality. Confined to this compact space, I’m able to talk to myself and dream up a world where I’m successful, married, happy and not constantly yearning for someone else. There isn’t an empty feeling. There isn’t a need to feel loved. It’s bliss.
A week later, I get an email telling me my phone is ready. I feverishly drive over, eager to be reunited with my fifth limb. When I enter the store, I look for the employee who helped me last time, but he is nowhere in sight. I realize I don’t even know his name. So I walk up to the counter, show my ID, and am gifted a box with my repaired phone inside. I open the box to find my beloved phone with a pink post-it note attached to its screen. The post-it note reads: “Hope you feel better.”
I hope so, too.
