Telephone Man

He extends his hand and grasps his other hand.

Connection.

He lives for that moment of contact, the spark of signals joined, voices through the aether. He listens to all of them, all the conversations. Not voyeuristically; he doesn't care if it's a lovers' whispered assignation or an automated advertisement, so long as they're talking.

Cellular nearly killed him. He loved the wires, the physicality of them. It took a while to learn the knack. He still disapproves of texting, rapid-fire staccatos filled with impenetrable private codes. He'll take what he can get, though.

Reach out and touch someone.

Please.