Weening

I remember the click my cell phone used to make. A little silver-grey box, pull-out antenna, screen half the size of a matchbox. There were two clicks actually. One when it opened, one when it closed. My thumb always punctuated it, a little flick of my hand, click, a little pause, ready for business. Closing it with my middle and ring fingers, one half hitting itself. I would sit there opening and closing my phone, opening and closing, opening and closing, opening and closing, click after click after click never getting old. Until it stopped working. Stopped opening the way it was supposed to. It was too much of a good thing. And of course my next phone, the click was hardly there at all, not very satisfying. And then this computer slab in my back pocket. I imagined the engineers knew what they were doing. Weening us. Now I take my phone out and there is no click, it doesn't make a noise, it doesn't do much of anything at all.