By Owen Townend
He told me that he was going back to Melbourne.
“After all these months,” I said. “Don’t I…isn’t there anything keeping you here?”
“You always knew this would happen.”
“Yes.” I turned from the blue light, the music in his hand. “Once you finally caught it.”
He touched me on the shoulder. His thumb muscles were strong, well-exercised. “The next patch will bring more. Hold onto that.”
“And when will that be?”
“Sometime next year.”
That’s all I have. The hope that, in roughly 365 days, his phone will lead him to a digital monster and back into my arms.
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