You are lying sideways on the couch, phone propped against a cushion, watching a stranger fold laundry to an audience of four thousand.
You will not remember the stranger. You will not remember the shirts they folded, or the song playing, or the little hearts you tapped up the side of the screen with your thumb, over and over, giving something away for free to someone you would never meet.
But look at your face for me. Slack, open, lit up blue in a dark room. No one is watching you. You are not performing. You are just a person, allowed to be dull and unhurried on a Tuesday night, borrowing the quiet company of someone else being ordinary somewhere far away.
You think this is a waste of an evening. I want you to know I would give a great deal to have this evening back exactly as it is. The couch that squeaks. The blanket you keep meaning to wash. Both your knees working fine, tucked up under you without a second thought.
You keep glancing at the little counter, wondering if you should be doing something that counts. Here is what counts: you were warm, and you were entertained by almost nothing, and you had a whole loose empty hour with nowhere you had to be.
Watch a little longer. Tap the heart.
It costs you nothing, and one day the memory of doing it will be worth more than you can imagine.