It’s a quarter to one and my eyes are yawning lazy in the summer noon. I’ve left my right foot a foot above the ground, swinging carelessly as my left foot stays tucked under the right knee where my right fingers are humming a tune whose lyrics I’ve forgotten. I fidget a little with the hems of my skirt, occasionally with my hair that the humidity has curled in ways no curler can. It’s a quarter past one now, and I browse through my chats on social media, hovering over yours just for a second longer. You’ve thanked me for something I don’t seem to recall. I hover for another four seconds before opening our conversation.