As I watched, Shaijaan gently massaged the ‘call’ icon. Rhythmic figures of eight, then a gesture I couldn’t quite discern.
“Intimacy signature,” he said. “nobody’s going to be copying this, they couldn’t know it without signing a prenup with me first.”
I said, “wow,” because that seemed appropriate, and thought about the sad 3210 in my pocket.
After a time, the icon began to melt, then delicate fractures spread across its surface like ageing masterpiece. The icon flew apart, splinters cascading across the display, each reflecting the sky and skyscrapers behind me like so many slivers of glass. I saw trees, I saw metal – in one, I saw my own face, and in my face, refracted by the C of ‘call’, I saw where everyone I loved was right there and then, their hopes and dreams, and in the agglomeration of them all I saw a terrifying hint of my own future.
Light poured from the interior, a light that felt familiar like a mother’s womb but also outside any spectrum known to mortal man, a light that scared me with profundity and yet – ah, and yet – soothed me. Reassured me that within the chaos, I would find salvation within this product. Absolution.
“Yeah,” Shaijaan sighed. “To be honest, I think iOS9 is a bit showy-offy.”