Texting

Texting

  Carlotta entered the language when she was three.  Her short arms and legs grew out slowly like the flour bunny, and soon she was able to swim, kicking and turning over like a delighted seal.  She was given her coordinates at 9, and in no time was constructing her own platforms with ease. At 12 she was temporarily lost on the grid, but everyone was relieved to discover that she had just been elaborated into three new identities, each more complex than the one they’d replaced.  It wasn’t long after that that I ran into one of her surrogates on the street.  “Carlotta,” I joked, “how’s life out there on the edge of the data-stream?”  There was a faraway look in her eye.  “Can’t talk right now,” she replied, “I’m texting.”