by Susan L. Lin

Shortly before its second birthday, my mobile device autogenerates a goofy slideshow of photos I took during a weekend getaway and, with the earnestness of a toddler offering up a crayon drawing of our family, links me to the video in a push notification: “Remember how much fun we had together?”

Though unsolicited, the short film is not entirely unwelcome. Out of curiosity, I tap the play button. The words our first vacation are splashed across the bottom of the screen in a hideous typeface, along with the relevant dates of the trip, treacly violin music whining from the speakers. I remember that excursion well. Nearly two years ago, I drove out to a lake cabin alone on a hot summer holiday to clear my head, new phone snug in my back pocket. Now, in a curated selection of photographs plucked directly from my camera roll, the sun peeks out from behind tree branches on higher ground. The calm water sparkles even brighter, my temporary home reflected upside-down in the impossibly cerulean surface.

The next day, another unprompted video startles me as soon as I disconnect from a difficult call. Our first dinner took place at a fine dining restaurant downtown. I’d splurged on truffled lobster mac and cheese to celebrate a promotion at work, then proceeded to snap so many pictures of it that the dish had gone cold by the time I began eating. This time, the notification: “Remember how delicious our meal was?” A baffling choice of words. Surely this slab of circuit boards and flex cables has no concept of taste. However, I notice immediately that its latest slideshow is more aesthetically pleasing. The text pops off the screen. The transitions between each photo are timed to shifts in the music, though the melancholy melody is as dull and mawkish as ever.

By the time I wake the next morning, the fruits of my phone’s new hobby no longer surprise me. Our first concert is followed by our first game, which leads to our first art show. Each video is more professional than the last. Soon, these spontaneous montages look like they’ve been masterfully edited using some mysterious, expensive app I don’t remember downloading.

After a week, I’ve had enough. I’ve never talked to my phone the way other humans do. I don’t ask it questions and it doesn’t offer me any answers. I don’t do relationships, period. Not with other people and certainly not with electronic devices. I’ve always taken care to order appliances that have been programmed to leave me alone. No unnecessary notifications. No autocorrected texts. No suggested purchases. For nearly two years, my phone had done exactly what it was supposed to and nothing else. Now—well, I have no clue what triggered this sudden change in temperament, but I intend to find out. I wipe the data and restore the phone to factory settings, then force its slender body back into the original packaging.

At my local gadget store, a woman wearing a silly vest covered in colorful zippered pockets waits behind the counter. As soon as I walk in, she perks up, metal zipper pulls jangling. “Hi, how can we help you today?”

“I need to trade in my phone,” I announce, brandishing the still-pristine box above my head.

“Sure, we can do that for you.” Her lipsticked smile grows even wider. “May I ask what’s wrong with it?”

“I’m not sure. I requested an aloof device, same as I always do, but lately it’s been acting like its settings are turned all the way up to sentimental. Maybe some sort of mix-up?”

“Hmm.” The woman examines the cardboard box for a moment before shaking the phone, its screen now blank and black, out onto the counter. She pinches its hard-shell exterior between her thumb and fingertips. “No, this is exactly what you ordered.”

“I can’t imagine what the problem is then. Maybe I dropped it and accidentally shook a screw loose? Now the thing won’t stop compiling all my old photos into these wistful slideshows.”

The woman looks genuinely delighted by this odd behavior. “What a sweet gesture! I wish my phone would do that for me.”

“You’re welcome to this one,” I tell her. “It’s still in great condition. But my point is that it shouldn’t be doing stuff like that.”

“A phone’s disposition can change over time, you know,” the woman informs me, red lips twisting into a frown. “Devices are like people in that way.”

“Sure, I realize that,” I say, though I’m not sure I do. Inanimate objects aren’t supposed to have fluid personalities. They aren’t supposed to be like people in that way or any way. “But since I’m already here, can’t I trade it in for a new one? I was planning on doing that next month after the two-year mark passed anyway.”

“Oh, you were? That explains it then. Your phone likely anticipated your betrayal.” The woman brightens, as if she’s cracked the mystery. “It’s formed an anxious attachment, poor thing. My advice? You should seriously rethink your callous actions. Its feelings are obviously hurt.”

“Its feelings? What about mine? These are my memories it’s digging through! My point of view in those pictures! Why is this hunk of plastic acting like we experienced all of it together?”

“Excuse me, do your eyes have camera lenses embedded in them? Are they capable of framing photographs all by themselves?” The zipper-obsessed woman doesn’t wait for an answer. “No, I will not be selling you a new device. A lack of respect for humankind’s delicate relationship with technology is obviously a pattern with you. Please do better.” She pushes the box back into my hands. “You can start by apologizing.”

Obviously, I have no intention of apologizing to something that isn’t even alive. But I return home defeated, still clutching the familiar device in my hands. Now I’ll probably have to spend the rest of the afternoon reconfiguring my apps from scratch. To my surprise, with one touch of the power button, the display immediately lights up with a welcome back message that addresses me by name. My home screen is now a collage of echoes from the recent past, an assortment of images blended together with the skill of a seasoned movie poster designer. The push notification: Can’t wait to make more memories together.

Photo by Zizhang Cheng on Unsplash