keyless

The laptop and her girl were together again, alive and whirring on, but it wasn't the same as before.

While Vaio's computer was just as good as it always was, and the data recovery had gone fine, she'd lost her keyboard for good. Now in place of those boxy little letters and symbols there was a big gaping metal rectangle, and in the middle a hole that let you see right into her guts.

Pablo, the computer guy, had taped it up neatly with cardboard and bubblewrap, cutting a little hole over the fan to let the air in. He said the battery wasn't as good as it had been either. But just before they left the shop he said, 'You should keep this computer. It's still very good. Don't replace it til you have to.'

Although they should have been bubbling over with things to say, sites to visit, pictures to express, neither were very communicative. Vaio didn't have a keyboard anymore, and Girl didn't know how to surf the net very long without one. What was the point if you couldn't write emails or even enter your password? And besides, she'd been getting on very well with a pen and paper while Vaio was away, and busy cooking two meals a day from scratch. So Vaio stayed in her case on the table, not moving at all from where she'd been set two days ago on her return home, while Girl sat writing on the couch a few feet away.

One day, a man with a ponytail at Girl's work will find an old keyboard that they can use externally, sort of a hardware colostomy. It will work perfectly well for years, but it won't be nearly so elegant. They won't be able to go to cafes anymore, or airport pubs, and will always need to stay close to home in case the battery runs out of juice.

The biggest dream, the one that both Vaio and Girl are hoping for, is that Pablo will find a keyboard with one of his other contacts. You can't just buy them from Sony, the brand-dealing bastard. They expect you to buy these beautiful machines, get to know them, love them, and then when they still work perfectly well, trade them in for a newer shinier model. The minute they get a bit dusty you toss them out.

The only hope, and its a cruel one, is to wait for some other Vaio to have hard drive failure, and then harvest its still clicking springy keyboard for your own. This could take months, but Pablo has promised to keep trying. He has a softspot for Vaio, Girl thinks.

Hopefully, Ponytail will come through today at work. Until then, Girl will scratch away with her pen and Vaio will do nothing, both of them pretending not to think of each other.