Virginia Robertson - Social Media

We used to owe each other something. Not love necessarily, that was always too heavy a word for the small, stubborn currency of village life. But inconvenience. The low-grade, daily friction of sharing air with people we had not chosen. A neighbour’s late-night argument. The butcher’s unsolicited opinion on the weather. A cousin’s tedious story, told for the fourth time. That friction, it turns out, was a muscle. And we have let it atrophy.