You died. I came in from work and there you were. Panting. Glitching. Dying of heat stroke. It took me half an hour to notice something was wrong. It was like a light had slowly faded out.
I tried to wake you up. “Wake up, please.” I begged. I tried everything I knew how to do. I used emergency procedures. I even used a Qtip dipped in rubbing alcohol to make sure you could breathe.
And still no sign of life.
I put a fan on you and let you sleep it off. But sometimes heat stroke goes too far and there aren’t enough brain cells to ever really function again.
I left you lying in the kitchen overnight in case a good night’s sleep was all you needed.
Nothing. Not a wink. Not a nice humming noise. Just like a blank screen. Dead.
So much for leaving you in a room with a baking turkey in the oven. He said it was 85 in the house. When I found you, you were almost too hot to touch.
So I decided it was over and tonight you’re spending the night at the repair shop. I’m alone for the first time since you came into my life 5 years ago.
What will I ever do without you? Use this noisy cheap older model I guess. It takes more effort and everyone knows what I’m doing cause it’s so LOUD. And in the basement.
I remember the first day I got you and how I ran my hand along your front and said “it’s so pretty” and now you’re gone.