Lonely Hearts

I stumble when she cuts me off, but she doesn’t notice. She breezes across my path to enter a McDonald’s. Through the window, I see her join the line and bump the man in front of her. She ignores his glare and keeps her head down over her mobile.  She pecks with both thumbs.  “I’m busy,” her posture proclaims. “I’m connected. I may be in McDonald’s by myself, but I’m not really alone.” I don’t judge her; she’s just trying to cope. I step inside and line up behind her, pulling out my own phone, which was disconnected last July.