She grabs it, and again begins clicking away.
No, it was sent. Then why the delay?
She goes about doing her work, sub-consciously aware, ready and alert to sweep it up them moment it sings. But it doesn't.
The next few minutes are torturous. She flashes angry eyes at the persistently silent object, picks it up then gently throws it on the bed, infusing as much anger as she's able to in that gentle force, so as not to damage it yet express her anxiety.
She marches out of the room with a loud 'HMMPH!'
Then, it comes. That short, sharp, shrill tune. She picks it up, it says:
'Sorry'.
She's softened, melted down to a heap.
Oh, cruel, cruel soul. How dare you reduce yourself to this excuse of a weakling?
She pushes the voice away, pride and dignity laid down, to nurse the abused item and reply with love, accordingly.
