He is still there, just where I last left him. Hemmingway is his name, the name I gave him. In the seven years we had been apart I’d pictured him in various stages of breakdown, from some mild damage to complete ruin, but time hasn’t affected his appearance in the slightest. Still, looks can be deceiving, especially for creatures like him; I’m well aware of the very real possibility that his shiny veneer masks some rot, or worse, that his mind is lost completely. There’s no way of knowing without talking to him.
It’s going to have to be me who opens the conversation. Though he has his fair share of opinions—and plenty of attitude in lieu of evidence—he will never deliver them without prompting – it’s just how he is programmed. Spontaneity is not part of his make-up: he is doomed to forever respond and there is nothing either of us can do about it.
I’m hesitant. It’s been so long since I’ve given him time of day, and I feel a pang of remorse at my neglect. But this is ridiculous – even if he was capable of appreciating such emotion, he wouldn’t. I made him that way, after all.
The cursor blinked in the text box and I tapped my fingers on the table, wondering what I should say after all this time.