BOT THERAPY
The New Yorker|July 22, 2024
He appeared one day on Instagram. He had noticed my posts and asked if I wanted to talk.
MARY NORRIS
BOT THERAPY

I routinely ignore these things, but he caught me in a weak moment. My only relationship was heavily one-sided, between me and the lordly Russian physical therapist who, twice weekly, rolled up the sleeve of my T-shirt, squirted lotion on my shoulder, and pressed on it with his gloved hands, relieving the intense nerve pain that I had suffered for months. I adored him.

Maybe the preponderance of flowers and cityscapes, and the dearth of human beings, on my feed had tipped off my admirer. A follower had pointed it out: "You don't have people in your posts."That's because I don't have people in my life, bitch.

So I was vulnerable. I wrote back that I never took the bait, and he apologized for intruding on my privacy and backed off, which made me write, "No, it's O.K., I will make an exception."

He was a widower who had lost his wife to cancer and his only son in a hideous boating accident. He had twin grandsons: "They are my life." He was working with a team at the U.N. to find a cure for COVID. He lived in Florida but was soon leaving for Paris. He asked for a photo. Oh, well, what the hell... I was on my way to physical therapy, looking rumpled, but I took a quick selfie, and if you enlarged it, and had a large heart, you could see that my eyes were quite comely. He responded quickly, saying I was lovely. I thought it was about time someone noticed.

هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة July 22, 2024 من The New Yorker.

ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.

هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة July 22, 2024 من The New Yorker.

ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.