Analog

He noticed immediately that his case was lighter and groaned. "Oh, no," he started. "Oh, yes," she confirmed. "Analog Day." She held her hand up as he began to make word noises. "Your helmet is by your bike." Irritated, he stepped outside to get a temp reading for jacket selection, and stomped out to the garage to climb on and pedal off. With no earbuds, no tablet, and no phone, his day began; he listened to his surroundings, wrote things down on paper or on the whiteboard, and had to talk to people at work instead of texting them. Unable to use an app for delivery, he was forced to forage for food on the high street, pushing a door open and looking at a laminated paper menu like it was 1952. He read a local paper (actually held it in his hands) while he ate. He scavenged for paper money in his wallet and put it into the tip basket for a musician playing a violin outside. He was aware of a warming sensation that might have been sun on the skin of his left arm. "Cripes," he hissed, annoyed at being annoyed, the feelings of digital withdrawal not relenting for a single moment. "I used to just do life," he said (back at home that night). "I didn't need props." "Modern man make fire," she said, sending him outside to work some chaos magic with matches, wads of paper, and kindling. She watched him struggle, rejoice, and then sit contentedly staring into the flames, occasionally looking up to marvel at the endless vault of stars.