What if I wrote a work of fiction where a recently divorced woman, trying to communicate with her ex regarding the eventual sale of the property, suddenly finds herself straining to decipher phrases amid the staccato breaking up of words over her cell phone that works like a charm when communicating with everyone else? Imagine this woman having flashbacks of years of limited conversation when heart-to-hearts were craved. Imagine her feeling a lump in her heart, the home of 27 years of perpetual non-understanding. Imagine, like years of following him around trying to get issues settled, she repeatedly calls him back for yet another “You’re breaking up. I’m losing you.” Then she leaves another articulate message to be unanswered.

Imagine, despite his lying during divorce proceedings, she still is too trusting to think that he’d do this on purpose. Imagine she believes he really tried yesterday by going to the Verizon dealer, who said his phone is fine. His theory of bad reception from the cell towers must indeed be the culprit, she tells herself, since he says his phone always works.

Wouldn’t this be cheap symbolism? If it were fiction, I mean.