A lady and her young daughter walk into the restaurant. They walk up and sit at the sushi bar. The parent has a faint aura of pretentiousness and lack of concern regarding any external perception about her. The child is relaxed and smiling, with sparkling energy flowing constantly in, out, and around her essence, like tiny comet trails of excited stardust. Her vibrant posture possesses no discount or disrespect for any of the world that swirls about herself and her comet trails.
They sit down. Mom immediately buries her head and all of her attention in her phone. The child, who seems to understand this mommy behavior as the norm, quietly refrains from intruding into mommy’s important activity. The little girl’s head remains up at all times and she keeps quietly observing the entire world of the restaurant. Is she looking around for something specific or just looking around to see if anyone else in the room actually notices her, actually sees her, I wonder?
After a few minutes, without any other engagement, mom pulls her phone out of the downward cradle of her hands, out of her own bubble of isolated existence, and points her phone world at her daughter. There isn’t really any verbalization or look of communication in the process, only a controlled pointing of a phone world filter at something organic, living, and breathing, which seems used to not be interacted with except in this given manner. The child doesn’t even turn or move for the first few snapped pictures. Then the photographer mom of the phone world filter clan apparently decides the pictures might be improved upon. Remaining as minimally interactive as is feasible, mom reaches up and moves the little girl’s flowing mane of curls slightly further towards the back of her head. Then, silent click, silent click, silent click. And maybe I’m imagining it, but now mom appears to feel like she has something to be happier about. . . a digital prisoner doppelgänger held perfectly in her own phone world filter of the alien organic-living-breathing entity that still sits right next to her, yet also apparently a million light years away.
The young girl eventually giggles and laughs at her photo session. Small meaningless words of empty banter bounce back and forth between the mouths of mother and daughter for a moment before both return to their previously adopted (or should I say adapted?) roles in their separate worlds of fictional crossover coexistence and union.
Their to-go-order eventually escapes the kitchen and is delivered unto them in a neat, nice, and immaculately folded paper bag. Mommy and daughter rise back up out of their seats as good as any strangers might do and then together, without words or gestures amongst themselves, stroll out of the restaurant so obviously happy in their unified familial bliss that I can barely stand it.