Sometimes, during the day, she’d envision the TV in her newly empty apartment, and feel some sort of turning in her heart, a kind of love. She’d return after a long day at work, she’d see the blankness of her flat screen, and she’d feel strangely comforted, whole. She never touched (dared to touch?) the TV itself, only the remote, but she often imagined reaching out her hand to stroke its hard edges, to caress its smooth blackness. She loved the stories too, the series, the characters, but her real connection was to the piece of machinery itself. And unlike a pet or a boyfriend, it demanded nothing from her. It only gave, never desired. And yet it took her heart, her attention, her concentration. And so she lay in bed, night after night, together with the flickering screen, and forced her eyes to stay open so that she could continue, continue to convene with her new lover.