James

He's back at his laptop. For the third evening in a row. The light from the screen cuts through the darkness of the room, his fingers zip across the keyboard, his phone lying nearby, flashing a notification every few minutes.

At first, you don't interfere. You put dinner on the table. You wait. Then you sit down next to her.

— Are you eating?

— you ask quietly.

• Just a minute,

— he answers automatically, without even looking at you.
Ten minutes pass. The food gets cold. You look at him and suddenly feel empty inside. As if you're close, but not with him.

You carefully close the laptop.
He freezes and looks up. His eyes first reflect surprise, then slight irritation.

“I needed your attention,” you say, trying not to sound offended. “Just a little bit. Not work. Not a phone. Just you.”

He's silent. He looks at you longer than usual. He notices how you clench your fingers to keep from crying.
Slowly moves the laptop further away. Turns the phone face down.

“I thought I was doing this for us,” he says more quietly. “To make things easier for us.”

He pulls you close, hugging you tightly, as if he's afraid you'll disappear. His breathing deepens.

— But if I lose you while I'm earning for us... then what's the point?

He touches your forehead with his and whispers:

— Tell me how to get your attention back on me... before it's too late.