She used to greet her husband upon his arrival home. Now, the hunchback, bug-eyed beetle that she appears to have become budges her body not; nor her eyes. Sadly, those bloodshot globes are glued to the monitor as her fingers scurry like spiders about the keyboard.|
He looks around the room. Candy wrappers, coke cans, and printouts dominate the scene. What has happened to the love of his life? Where did she go? He appraises the figure before him; is she still in there? Or is this the nineties version of the Stepford wife run amuck?
He calls out to her. For a split second, the digital activity comes to a suspension over the cursed keyboard, and then resumes with more fervor than even before.
What he then utters is clearly an ultimatum. His tone is uncompromising and commanding.
Dead still, now, she turns to look at him over her shoulder. They stare at each other.
The phone rings. "Answer it," he says. Neither of them move. Not taking his eyes off her, he backs out of the door, then heads for the phone in the next room.
When Lot returns, she is as she was, except that her head had turned back to the computer which, like her, had turned into a glistening pillar of silicon.