D.W. spent much of their days on a computer.

Assigning human readable names to data. Assigning human readable names to operations that manipulated data.

The firm that employed D.W. compensated well. They could afford to order anything they wanted to eat and have it show up at their door. They had not gone shopping or cooked a meal in over 18 months.

In D.W.'s memory they remembered having to drive to the store, buying the right things, bringing it back home, making sure the kitchen was clean, heating up pots and pans, cooking, doing the dishes, and having to do that all over again. This swallowed much of their day and left them wanting to do nothing else but put something mindless on the TV.

Nowadays D.W. had all the time in the world. And yet they defaulted to spending much of their time on a computer. Now that they actually had time to cook they didn't. Now that they had time to go see a friend, and instead they met up in

Roblox

.

One winter afternoon D.W. visited a grandma they once spoke occasionally with. She had just found out she was terminally ill. She let D.W. know in an email.

When D.W. arrived at the grandma's front steps they were reminded of over ten years back, back when they used to bike around here as a college student. The door opened and the grandma said a cheerful hello. D.W. was brought back to the now. They were now 32, and the grandma would soon be dead.

Inside the house was dark. There were warm lamps in every corner of every room. D.W. could already the grandma had cooked up a feast. They were already salivating over the cheesy potatoes that the grandma used to always make for them.

"Tea?"
"Yes. Thank you."

D.W. sat down at the table and was served 

earl gray

by a Harney and Sons satchel. The two carried small talk well. You wouldn't know that one of them was going to die if you listened in. D.W. had a good way about never talking about anything significant. Maybe that's why the grandma reached out to them. To be able to finally have one final evening where she wasn't treated like a dying person.

When the grandma left the small talk to go open the oven, D.W. felt the urge to check their phone. It was the first time they felt this since their walk over to the house. They resisted. But thoughts of their normal life returned back to them. Thoughts of bits and data. How much of their life was transposed to 

API

transactions flowing through wires and cables spanning the globe. These thoughts never left their head, even after the grandma returned with the main entree. Even while D.W. stood up to go and help set the table.

API. Gig economy employees. Delivery. That's all they were thinking about while bringing the collard greens over. While bringing the heavy thick plates over. All the time they watched as the grandma's lips moved as she shared this and that, but they couldn't listen. Only hear.

Finally, it was once they put a forkful of four very thin sliced disks of potatoes lathered in melted cheese and onion, that they felt the food. Felt it physically in their mouth.