I almost licked their computer screen. Ridiculous as it seems. I was lost in thought and the flat screen fell casually into my line of vision and the silver edge seemed soft and somehow textured and I found myself leaning forward. The shop smells like fuel and the men all have bitten-back nails the colour of tar and there is a certain disorder to their paperwork that appeals to me. This and the heat. It is probably the heat, but I leaned forward and I knew suddenly that if I hadn't caught myself then I would have licked the computer screen.
Am I alone in this? Is this some rare psychosis that turns every inanimate object into something I must taste or touch or take into my body? You are one of a kind, he tells me on the telephone, reminiscing. There has never been anyone like you. This is not comforting. I like to be unique but I do not like to be lonely. One of a kind, no one like you, when all I hope for is a little friend who speaks in my voice and nods and understands and does not judge me. Still, I have a suspicion that every once in a while, everyone has the urge to lick the computer screen at their motorcycle workshop.