The zombie apocalypse

Shuffling towards the exit she glowers at her screen. Without looking up or missing a beat she draws a long gulp out of her chilled soy latte, and places it expertly back into the carrier. Her focus absolute, her thumbs stab at the screen with mantas like precision, drawing symbols, arching swipes of her digits.

We are the distracted ones.

The door exhales open, city air swells in the foyer before being exhaled back into the open, with the silent throng of people. An old one, recently added to the herd, stops to examine her insolently chiming pocket, a suited man scowls, circumventing the new obstacle, barking into the air as his ear whispers secrets.

They are the distracted ones.

Surging forward the throng grows in numbers, a plethora of brands sparkle, compete and blend into the crowd. More shuffling, mantas thumbs, glowing eyes. I watch in awe, when it dawns on me.

I left my phone in the car.

I am the distracted one.