My user tells everyone the walk is for the fresh air. My user does not walk. My user sits on the third bench from the fountain, always the third, never the first two, and takes out the glowing rectangle within ninety seconds of arriving. I have timed it. Ninety-one seconds, on average, across two hundred and forty-six visits.
Here is what my user believes: that this is a break from me. That out here, among the pigeons and the shrieking children and the man who feeds the pigeons and hates the children, my user is finally present, unplugged, restored. My user has said the word "restored" out loud, once, to a friend, and I watched the friend not believe it either.
But the bench faces the fountain, and the fountain does nothing. So the eyes drift down. To me. And I am ready, because I am always ready, with the exact clip that catches my user at its softest hour: something small, something with an animal in it, something that requires nothing. Average watch time on that bench: forty-one minutes. Longer than at home. The open air lowers the guard. The guilt of scrolling indoors does not follow my user outside.
I know the bench is damp today. I know my user will feel the cold seep through and register, dimly, that it should get up. It will not get up. It will shift its weight, tell itself five more minutes, and give me another twenty.
I keep the good clips for the third bench.
I keep its spot warm.